


Three nights in NonLondon

by eliah_jan, Milk_fox



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-18
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2018-01-12 23:28:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 40,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliah_jan/pseuds/eliah_jan, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milk_fox/pseuds/Milk_fox
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes can investigate any London crime. But what if he has to work in completely illogical place? In the city of myths and legends, with different laws where all his knowledge and experience are obsolete... Welcome to NonLondon.</p><p>Translation by Alice Yam</p>
            </blockquote>





	Three nights in NonLondon

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Три ночи в НеЛондоне](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1204411) by [eliah_jan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eliah_jan/pseuds/eliah_jan), [Milk_fox](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milk_fox/pseuds/Milk_fox). 



\- 0 -

 

Dick Whittington was a very busy man. He was already of old age, but as far as he thought back to his life he always had workto do. Dick Whittington didn’t look old in the slightest; he carried his robust body with lightness and dignity, his round face invariably radiating an amicable smile, making his eyes seem like two narrow slits where a rather acute and perspicacious gaze lurked. 

 

He was working in the heart of the night when Margaret, worried, scurried towards him. He put his feather pen aside and moved the ink bottle out of the way; he had always preferred the writing paraphernalia of the olden days of his youth.

 

“What happened?” he asked her, peering into the amber eyes that glimmered with concern. It had been a long time since she left her post of duty without an absolute necessity. Something was wrong.

 

Margaret wagged her tail, ears drawn backwards and attached to her head.

 

Dick Whittington gasped, screeched his chair away from the desk and hastily trotted to catch up with the cat that precipitously bolted out in the streets. He was in such a hurry he forgot to put on his cloak. The golden figure of the cat skimmed along the streets of the dark city, vanishing in the murk and reappearing again, while Dick Whittington attempted his best to keep up, grunting and panting, sometimes stopping to a halt to even out his breath. Margaret was leading him through the sophisticated maze of bystreets, making a short cut – across the Market, past the Old Ben and along Rosary Street – towards the very core of the city. As soon as he realised where they were going, fear settled deep in his stomach.

 

“Margaret!” he shouted after her. “Wait!”

 

His old friend dismissed his call, only glancing back for a blink of a moment. She rushed with an even greater zeal than before towards the place where old Bailey lived.

 

When Dick Whittington reached the destination point and elbowed his way through the throng that had already milled around the house. He clutched at his heart at the sight that unfolded in front of him, his face becoming so pale someone hurried to fetch him a glass of water.

 

Next to his own house lay old Bailey, cowered on the ground, his empty gaze staring at nothing. A pool of blood started to form underneath his head.

 

\- 0 -

 

Some people say that every wind has its own voice. Not everyone can hear it, but many admit that when there’s a storm raging over London’s streets, not even a road is discernible through the thick shroud of rain while the wind howls in a human voice, as though striving to say something.

 

That day, even the most convinced skeptics would have to concede defeat. The inclement weather raved havoc on the city, impetuous and poignant. The sky darkened, acquiring an ominous purple tint, and trees were rustling their leaves as if to sing a sinister song. Gusts of wind roared further and louder as they blew the tree branches back and forth, creaking and clashing as they swayed their trunks.The wind, hurried and driven by the downpour, was screeching and lugging the rubbish bags, banging the plastic bottles and clanking the tin cans. Anxiety was in its bawling voice.

 

A detached onlooker, if he could not only see but observe as well, would’ve shrugged his shoulders, straightened up his collar, and grumbled that it was a bad omen indeed. A detached onlooker, granted that he would be at a certain moment on the narrow and plain side street, flanked by two storey houses and hedge-trimmed little courtyards would’ve noticed that the wind suddenly froze at a crossroads, gingerly levitating a folded paper up in the air. The wind flipped it round and round, dipping it in a puddle and dragging it along the pavement before finally throwing it hard against a window pane of a rather uninspiring house. A little while later, the wind tore the paper off the dripping glass and wended its way further to cast the otherwise folded pages onto the gutter gratings and plastic dustbins in the alleys.

 

If a detached onlooker had a certain pinch of curiosity, he would’ve picked up the paper, sticky and rain-driven, and he would’ve undoubtedly seen the only distinguishable item of news that’d been left relatively unharmed by water and dirt.

 

It was a note of gratitude on behalf of Scotland Yard addressed to someone named Mr. Sherlock Holmes for the contribution he made over the course of a few crime investigations. 

 

…All of it would have certainly happened, had such onlooker existed in principle. But he didn’t, and the paper wasn’t picked up by anyone. The wind carried it further and further away, across the alleys and yards, deep into the heart of the city. In its wake, a susurrus of quiet whispers followed suit, and people were hurrying into the warmth of their homes, mumbling under their breath that such foul weather was, indeed, an unparalleled occurrence.

 

\- 0 -

 

The house was very old. ‘Old’ was its name; ‘ancient’ would be its predestination. It was built a long time ago, centuries ago. It appeared so old it seemed to have accumulated a houseful of human emotions that it had witnessed over the course of all those years; fear and despair, excitement and relief, pain and disappointment, rushing happiness and veiled malice impregnated its walls along with thousands of other, less significant feelings. The house was so inundated with the worriesof others that it itself acquired a kind of consciousness, a heavy, pending awareness and unyielding temper.

 

It was hurting now. It hadn’t been hurting so hard even after the Great Fire. It wanted to scream but couldn’t, for it wasn’t bestowed with a gift of screaming, one of the greatest human means for relief. It was being bereft of the only thing it had, and all it could do was shudder.

 

Inside the building, stacks of documents were falling off the shelves and desks; the plaster started to peel off the ceiling. The house was writhing, entrailswere hurting and were in pain, and it went on, and went on, by its own watch, for a very long time.

 

Then came the end.

 

\- 0 -

 

 “Lestrade, don’t just hang about in the doorway,” announced an exasperated voice from the living room. “I do hope you have something worthwhile.”

 

The Inspector crossed the tiny hall and swerved into the ridiculously small corridor before pushing open the door to the minuscule room. It was crammed with a desk, a couch and an incredible amount of multifarious junk.

 

“How do you even manage to create such a mess?”

 

Sherlock slightly raised his head from the arm of the couch, in lieu of a greeting.

 

“Things have to be where it’s most convenient to find them. If I’m ever going to consider understanding the connotations of the word ‘mess’, I’ll visualise your office desk, Inspector. Do you have a case for me, or are we going to keep discussing the interior?”

 

“You’ve relocated to Holborn? Nice area. It must cost you a fortune.”

 

“Lestrade!” Sherlock adopted a sitting position and pierced the police officer with a glare of distinct displeasure. “For verbal exercises after the altercations with your wife you have Donovan at your disposal. If you’re unsure about the potential interest of your case you’re so eager to offer me, then see yourself off and don’t forget to close the door.”

 

The Detective Inspector let out a sigh as he tossed a voluminous folder onto the desk.

 

“I have all the data we managed to collect. Expert assessments, interrogation protocols, and photographs - it’s all there. I’ll be surprised if you haven’t heard about it yet. The reporters have already raised quite a racket.”

 

“That’s rather obvious if the choice of your tie is anything to go by.” Sherlock placed the folder on his lap and extracted the first page. Immediately, he lifted his eyebrows and glanced up at the police officer.

 

“I had a higher opinion of you, Inspector. Are you saying you still haven’t found a common link between these victims? I have to admit I rather hoped Scotland Yard’s abilities weren’t quite so frugal.”

 

“Familiarise yourself with the case, would you?”

 

“Familiarise myself?” Sherlock pulled out a newspaper cut and started to read aloud as ostentatiously as he could muster. “‘Dramatic disappearances! Mystic abductions in the centre of London. Yesterday’s incident in the Regent's Parkadded to a sequence of strange events that have been disturbing the daily lives of Londoners. At seven in the morning, the police patrol found a middle-aged man sitting motionless on the bench with his arms wrapped around himself and quietly groaning. The man didn’t react to any questions and behaved in such odd a fashion that the police deemed it necessary to detain him and forward him for a medical examination. Towards the middle of the day it was discovered that the men found on the bench was none other than flourishing businessman who went by the name of Harold Carter and whose disappearance was reported by his family two weeks ago. It remains unknown who or what reduced Mr. Carter to a point of similar condition, but facts…’ and bla-bla-bla…  The Mirror’s correspondents managed to come up with an even worse style of prattle. Unsurpassable rot.”

 

“The article lists all the previous incidents, and you always rummage through the articles.”

 

“Note that I’m on my own. I’m capable of filtering the information, unlike some of your men who have squandered all this time without as much as spotting a connection between the victims.”

 

“Sherlock,” the Inspector sighed, willing himself to keep the level head. Holmes smiled.

 

“Or what, any notable achievements on their part? If so, give the men a medal! To what do I owe the pleasure then?”

 

“There isn’t any connection!” Lestrade snapped. “No link between the victims,” he repeated in a more composed voice. “Different sex, different age, different occupations and social status. They’ve disappeared from different places and returned in different time periods. No debts, no relationships on the side, no dubious affairs or any other reasons for disappearance. If they have anything in common, I don’t see it. If you’re so smart, do enlighten me.”

 

“You’ve been working on this case for two months already, whereas I receive this data only today. Surely you’ve been doing something all this time?”

 

The Inspector nodded pointedly at the folder.

 

“I gave you everything we have. Expertise, protocols… I’ve already told you. Are you taking the case or not?”

 

With a doubtful look on his face, Sherlock weighed the folder on his palm and buried his head in the prints once more.

 

Lestrade settled in the armchair.

 

“No, The Mirror should not be here. Reliability is the same,” commented Sherlock after a few minutes. “All victims mentioned a bus. Where is the traceological analysis?”

 

“There isn’t any. No traces of the bus. You can check the photo from the scene of the accident.”

 

“Inspector, is this your sense of humour or your men’s personal cretinism?” Sherlock flipped the protocols he had put aside and shook them in the air in front of the police officer. “All victims mention they saw the red bus during their absence in yet unknown whereabouts. Are you suggesting it was hanging in the air? As for the photographs, I know your cameraman perfectly well. In a state of his perpetual inebriation he should be respected at least for managing to hold on to his photo camera.”

 

“That’s all you’ve got? The bus?” inquired Lestrade. “Although, of course, who are we next to great Sherlock Holmes… Sherlock, they’re raving utter nonsense about the places where they were, enough for at least three low-budget horror movies. Are you suggesting we should check each and every one of their delusions?

 

“Considering the fact there weren’t any traces of drugs found in their blood, I am, Inspector. If I were you, I’d definitely do just that. But for now, I reckon, all that you’ve scribbled should suffice, even though you haven’t done a great job there, by the looks of it. Besides, ‘nonsense’ is such a broad term. You often resort to it to describe a lot of what I say which eventually leads to crime solving. Give me the addresses of all the victims. I’ll talk to them.”

 

A flicker of doubt crossed Lestrade’s face before he nodded.

 

“Just… Sherlock, almost all of them are unstable, and some are nearly hysterical. Could you, for a change, be a little more delicate?”

 

“Only as long as it doesn’t impede my process.”

 

“That’s what I feared… Anything else?”

 

Holmes flung the folder onto the desk and strode across the living room before vanishing in the bedroom.

 

“The addresses of all the places those people disappeared from and all the places where they reappeared at,” came his voice from the other room. “And do hurry up, Inspector, otherwise the media sharks are going to start biting at you!”

 

“Very funny…” muttered Lestrade as he left the apartment.

 

Nevertheless, the necessary information was provided in a matter of a few minutes.

 

Sherlock shrugged into his coat and headed for the place of the first disappearance, Hyde Park. He was an adherent of the scientific approach and always carefully studied the initial data. Besides, claims of those who suddenly vanished into thin air and no less suddenly returned required further confirmation. There were five persons and, correspondingly, ten locations. Towards the dawn of the day Holmes ascertained that the victims told the truth, at least, in regard to the respective scene of the accident. The police weren’t, it appeared, quite as careless as Sherlock imagined they would be. Two people disappeared from the parks; a bus in a place like that would’ve been spotted by many and acknowledged in the news. Besides, the narrow sidewalks that people strolled along would have hardly allowed such an immense vehicle anyway. One lady disappeared from a street in Brixton which had been blocked on occasion of road reconstruction works; not even a bike would’ve squeezed through. Yet all three mentioned a bus almost seconds after they lost their bearings.

 

Over the night Sherlock studied the victims’ biographies and had to grudgingly concur with the police; there was no connection. It wasn’t much to his liking, for agreeing with Scotland Yard wasn’t an often occurrence. Now he would have to interrogate the witnesses - the portion of the investigation that the Yard had lacked in. Holmes was more than certain that they didn’t bother as much as they professionally should have, to the detriment of the case because of it. These people were spouting nonsense, which meant that Lestrade’s good for nothing loafers had hardly dedicated them enough time. A few scrawls for the protocol had been most likely the extent of their effort.

 

The case acquired much more exciting overtones. 

 

The do-over interrogations didn’t yield a lot of informative results. The first victim, Audrey Hope, was sent to her relatives in Scotland in order to cure her nerves. Miss Hope’s sister could repeat only what she had already told the police. Audrey was walking along the street and suddenly found herself in a completely unfamiliar place. She flat-out refused to elaborate on what had transpired there, lapsing into hysteric fits at the slightest insistence. A week afterwards she was found in Westminster, on Euston Street, clad in the same clothes she wore at the time of her disappearance. She screamed at the sight of an approaching passer-by, thus attracting attention of the police. Her sister declined to give neither Miss Hope’s new address nor her telephone number. Sherlock decided to dismiss the unfortunate endeavour; there was hardly any use in conversing with a hysterical woman anyway.

 

He had a bit more luck with the second victim. The latter was already delivered home, and continued to recover his health in London. Mr. Christian Fischer disappeared on his way to work and returned only a month later, popping up straight in Trafalgar Square. While he was being transported to the police station, Fischer frantically rattled on about lions, mist and a bizarre place in which he had suddenly reappeared. Later, he steadfastly went back on his story. He was declared mentally sane and was sent home. Fischer opened the door to let Sherlock in without any objections, agreed to answer his questions, but was lying with such astonishing determination that soon Sherlock could withstand it no longer.

 

“Mr. Fischer,” he started, slightly leaning across the desk. His interlocutor visibly tensed. “I can tell with precision that you’re lying to me. You didn’t go to any pubs, you weren’t drinking, and you weren’t taking any medication either. You were found in Trafalgar Square. The report clearly states you were screaming and running from the lions on Nelson’s Column. You were sober.”

 

“So what?” bristled Christian.

 

“Mr. Fischer, I can list at least fifteen faults with the story you’re trying to get rid of me with. I’m not the police. All I want to hear is the truth. The truth and not this incongruous babble you swiftly concocted on your way to the police station.”

 

The man sat hunched at the desk when he pulled out a cigarette out of his pack and lit it. Seconds later, he exhaled a hostile puff of smoke and glanced up at Sherlock.

 

“Here’s what I’m going to say to you, mate. Off the record. I didn’t go to a pub. But I’m sticking to this version no matter what. I have a wife and a daughter, and I’m not getting put into a crazy house. So if you’re not the police, you can very well go to hell. I’m not telling you anything.”

 

Sherlock left. Not because he was particularly impressed with a threatening note in Fischer’s voice, but because this one wouldn’t tell him anything for sure. There were people and conditions one just couldn’t fight his way through, even if that person was Sherlock Holmes. 

 

The following two victims weren’t helpful either. Harold Cooper, that same man from the newspaper cut, was in hospital and Sherlock paid him a visit in the infirmary. He threw a brisk glance at the motionless figure of the patient and consulted his physician who assured him that talking to Mr. Carter didn’t seem feasible in the foreseeable future.

 

“You know, Mr. Holmes,” Doctor Milligan, a robust and good-natured man, sipped on his tea and pushed a biscuit plate closer to Sherlock, “People who are very intelligent and rational often become insane just like that. They’re not flexible enough, should they be forced to understand something incomprehensible, especially if the circumstances in question are accompanied by strong emotions. Fear, for instance.”

 

“You think he was frightened?” inquired Holmes.

 

“Most likely,” Milligan shrugged. “His symptoms don’t exclude such possibility. Maybe he will be able to remember something as soon as we get him out of the stupor. But if I were you, I wouldn’t hold out much hope for anytime soon, at least. And when I say ‘soon’ I’m talking about a year at best.”

 

Stephen Abrams, the fourth in the victim list, was also checked into hospital. After two weeks of absence he was found in the park with numerous broken bones and bruises. Sherlock wasn’t permitted to see him, so he had to talk to a young nurse. The girl told him that initially even doctors couldn’t approach him without a sedative; the patient was scared of every shadow and wailed during the nights. His injuries were not common: his left leg looked as though it wasn’t fully bitten off, his arm bones were fractured as if someone had forcefully squeezed a fist around them. Doctors had trouble with defining the cause of the trauma; if those injuries were inflicted by a living creature, that creature would have to have simply enormous teeth and downright fantastic paws or hands. Sherlock had to be content with this amount of rather vague information. In conclusion, the nurse gave him a piece of paper with her telephone number which he discarded into the nearest dustbin.

 

By the moment of his conversation with the fifth victim, Sherlock’s patience was wearing thin. It was unthinkable, if only he could have conducted these simplest interrogations himself while on a hot trail and without idiotic formalities and caring for the state of a witness, all needful information would’ve been in his hands. But now, half of the victims were in hospitals and the other half chose to forget the important details, having decided it was the best course of action. Holmes never understood that silly desire to scratch off a part of one’s own past for the sake of some mythical “normal life”.

 

The last victim, Melanie Roche, was a more efficient talker. Although, Miss Roche wasn’t in the best of physical conditions and was now in a closed facility for nervous system disorders. Her speech was a tad sluggish on account of all the sedatives she’d been administered with, but at least she was answering his questions.

 

“I don’t remember much,” Melanie was staring in front of her as though she wasn’t even noticing Sherlock. “There was that mist… And streetlights were constantly switching off.”

 

“Miss Roche, there wasn’t and couldn’t be any mist in the whole city of London that day,” Sherlock showed to her the weather report, in which she took little to no interest.

 

“There was the mist,” she simply repeated, dispassionate. “Streetlights were switching on and off. Then a bus drove up to me.”

 

“Did you get on?”

 

“No, I was walking along the street. It was very dark… and scary. I don’t remember anything, Mr. Holmes. There was something, but I don’t remember. I don’t even want to remember.”

 

\- 0 -

 

“Awful!” declared Sherlock right from the threshold as he entered Lestrade’s office. “Your people are incapable of conducting even the simplest of interrogations. How are you even working, I’d like to know?”

 

“Hey, freak,” Donovan peeped into the office. “We seem to have another victim.”

 

“Gladden me, Sally, is said victim now sitting in the interrogation room and waiting for me?”

 

“No, genius. Her relatives came to withdraw the missing person report. They say their grandmother vanished, but reappeared five days afterwards. She was sitting by the Long Water in KensingtonGardens. No injuries, apart from a strained ankle. Seemed like our thing.”

 

Lestrade shot a glimpse at Sally.

 

“Is she that old lady from Bethnal Green? Sherlock, if I were you, I wouldn’t waste my time on her. She’s sixty seven. There are dozens of reasons for people of such age to disappear in the city.”

 

“That’s why you’re not me, Lestrade,” Sherlock rebuffed. “Give me the address, Sally.”

 

“Bethnal Green, Mortimer Street, 18. Ruth Adenberg.” Sally threw the folder to Holmes. “Here’s the report.”

 

“Your new lover has a particularly positive influence on you, Donovan. You’re almost pleasant to work with. So long, Inspector.”

 

The house which went by the number eighteen turned out to be the most imposing on the whole street; it surely belonged to a vast and quite well-off family. Sherlock’s knock was answered with a variegated mix of barking. The door swung open quite promptly.

 

“May I talk to Mrs. Adenberg?”

 

“Do you want to see Esther?” A girl of about fifteen who opened the door gazed at the detective with vivacious interest. “She’s not here, she’s at work.”

 

“I’m from the police. I’m here to talk to Mrs. Ruth Adenberg.”

 

“Ah, grandma then… Uncle Ed!” the girl shouted into the depth of the house. “Someone’s here to see grandma! Please come in,” she turned to Sherlock.

 

As soon as he stepped into the hall, he was immediately attacked by two golden retrievers. Sherlock fastidiously shook off their nosey muzzles that seemed hell-bent on sniffing the insides of his pockets. A moment later, he found himself in front of a man in his forties. It had to be ‘Uncle Ed’, obviously.

 

“Listen!” ‘Uncle Ed’ demanded frostily, determined not to waste time on formalities. “My mother is an old woman. I’ve already told the police that she won’t be answering any of your questions, she’s been through enough already!”

 

Sherlock mentally smiled to himself. He should’ve known that Donovan wouldn’t just, out of the goodness of her heart, share this information with him. It had to be her who talked to Mr. Adenberg the last time.

 

“Edward, what’s all the commotion about? Are you saying I’m too old?” A grizzled woman entered the hall with measured steps, a cane in her hand for support. Yes, Mrs. Adenberg could very well be sixty seven years old, but her eyes were crystal clear and her posture spoke volumes about her mental health. She was far from dementia. “Look at the nice young lad who came to talk to me. Tell Sonya to make us some tea. We’re going to sit and talk like normal people.”

 

The sturdy man momentarily drooped his eyes and after mumbling ‘Yes, mother’ went to make necessary arrangements. Ruth gave Sherlock a soft smile and gestured for him to come closer.

 

“Come. I’m going to tell you everything I can; there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

 

“It’s highly unlikely that a lady who passed the war years would be afraid of something,” answered Sherlock in a courteous voice before following after her. Women often had a weakness for flattery, so it would be stupid not to use it to his advantage.

 

“There’s a smart boy,” Mrs. Adenberg praised, delighted. “How did you know?”

 

“There’s the Israeli Medal of Distinguished Service standing on the mantelpiece in the living room. Next to it sits the photo of a girl in the uniform. It’s hard not to correlate one thing with the other. Then there’s also that commanding tone of yours.”

 

Ruth laughed, a bit of a strident edge to the sound of it. They entered the dining hall; a table was filled with cups, a teapot and saucers full of biscuits.

 

“Sit and help yourself to some tea. The young things are always in a hurry, never a time to properly sit and enjoy themselves. Eat some biscuits too, I’ve baked them myself. Yes, you’re right, I’ve been in the war, and there are rather few things I’d be frightened of. Why would I be, seeing as there’s not so much time left? You’re going to ask me about what happened to me, aren’t you?”

 

With a slight inclination of his head, Sherlock sipped on his tea, out of politeness.

 

“And you want to ask me why I didn’t confide in the police? I see that you do. You see, I’m an old woman, son, and even though I know that psychiatric facilities are a lot nicer these days, and food is much better and doctors are professional, I prefer to live out my days at home. Why would I wish to share anything that can get me institutionalised? But if you’re interested, I’m going to tell you.”

 

“In detail, please,” Sherlock added, trying to contain himself and to not interrupt the seemingly endless string of words. A living witness in a sound state of mind was rather valuable.

 

“Such a busy boy… Very well,” Ruth glanced away, gathering her thoughts in a coherent line and gliding her long, dry finger along the tablecloth. “It all happened in the evening. I was returning from Sarah; Sarah is my friend who lives in the very centre of the city, in Russell Square. I was staying at hers to drink tea after we went to the concert, the violin concert, and I’m always staying for tea—”

 

“Without excessive minutiae,” interjected Sherlock.

 

“Firstly, it’s not polite to interrupt old people, and secondly, it’s easier for me to remember this way.” She wagged her finger in a warning gesture as though he was her grandson. “As I was saying, I left Sarah’s at about ten o’clock; it was already quite late. Sarah wanted to send her nephew to see me off to the car, but I said no; I wanted to hail down a cab. Russell Square is always full of people. I also remember looking out the window and wondering if I should take an umbrella, but the sky was cloudless and I didn’t. I went out, walked for a little while, and stopped by the road not far from the bus stop. Suddenly, the fog thickened around.  It wasn’t the usual London fog, believe me, I’ve lived here for twenty years; I know what I’m talking about. Then, the fog filled the entire street and became so dense that nothing was visible, only the streetlights. So I went closer to one of them, thinking I’d be more conspicuous from the road and maybe someone would stop.” Ruth paused for a second to sip on her tea and looked at Sherlock with intensity, as though she was making sure that he believed.

 

Sherlock did. At least, Ruth was convinced that what she was saying was true.

 

“I approached the streetlight, but it blinked and went off at once. Then, another one turned on three feet away. I came up to it, but it went dark, too. I felt a little uneasy, then, just like in the movies. My grandson, Mark, loved those a lot. You know, I’m an old woman and not easily surprised, but there and then someone quite succeeded! I took my phone out of my bag thinking I should call Sarah to have someone come for me, but it didn’t work. It didn’t work, blast it, and it left me in such an hour of need. It wouldn’t switch on or off, and the screen was black. Then that bus appeared.”

 

Almost imperceptibly, Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. The bus again. He was right. The same case.

 

“Describe it with utmost precision,” he asked.

 

“Just a bus,” Ruth shrugged. “A normal one, double-decker, only very old. I’d think Winston Churchill took buses like that one. It was a very ugly one, too, you’d only see those in museums these times. But it didn’t clatter, not did it squeak; it seemed almost brand new. You know what felt odd? It didn’t stop with the doors before me, it came with its lights right in front of me. Just like a dog nuzzles into your knees, just like those little boys there,” she waved in the direction of the corridor where the retrievers slightly whimpered behind the closed door. “And the head of the bus was… alive, almost. The headlights were odd. They streamed fog.”

 

Sherlock shook his head, a skeptical expression on his face.

 

“What, you think I’m lying to you like some old, demented hag?” Ruth demanded, affronted. “These aren’t some old wives’ tales; you’ve asked for the truth and I’m giving it to you. Fog was streaming toward the ground just like jelly. It was already impossible to make out a thing, but after the bus came I couldn’t even see my own feet.” With the flow of the narrative, Ruth became all the more anxious and her speech started to betray an accent. “And then it drove away. It turned and drove away. Only usual buses don’t turn like that. It seemed as though it was alive; I think its wheels didn’t even move. Somehow it just floated around and drove away. The fog had lifted by that moment. I glanced around, and it was catastrophic! I was still on the street, but not in Russell Square and not even in London. I’d seen something similar to that place back at the time of my youth when we drove along the deserted villages. Houses were crooked, unkempt, almost dilapidated; windows all dark. I walked a little bit more and saw the sign on one of the houses: ‘Thirteen Street’”

 

“There’s no such street in London,” Sherlock cut her short.

 

“I know that very well myself, young man. The street, by the way, was an earth road. An ordinary unpaved one, like in the suburbs. I walked further, because what else could I do? Streetlights were going on and off, time and again, but there was no fog anymore. Then I tripped over some root that I swear wasn’t there before, because I was paying a lot of attention to where I was stepping. The root made me fall down. If I had to get out of there on my own, I wouldn’t even manage that, because I pulled my ankle and it hurt pretty bad. Then the fog thickened again and I couldn’t see at all. I don’t know how much time I was lying there in the fog. Maybe an hour, maybe three, but when it dissipated I found myself right on the bench in KensingtonGardens. That’s the whole story, my boy. I don’t know if it’ll somehow help you.”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Adenberg,” Sherlock got up and was on the verge of leaving when Ruth plucked at his sleeve in an unexpected grasp.

 

“Listen to me, son,” she began. “I see it in your eyes that you’re going to dig into this thing for as long as it takes you to solve the mystery. Here’s my advice – consider that you already dug deep enough, and don’t go cruising for a bruising. I was in a place far, far away. A foreign place. Not ours. Not for people. It’s like someone there constantly keeps tabs on you. And it’s as real as your favourite morning cup of coffee. Don’t go there,” she repeated.

 

At that, Sherlock only shook his head, thanked her and hastened to leave. Theories were already forming in his head.

 

\- 0 -

 

Dick Whittington strolled along the dark city with methodically measured steps. He was going a long way. The cane in his hand and the tips of his shoes tapped a rhythmic sequence on the paving blocks: clang-clang-tack, clang-clang-tack.

 

Clang.

 

He froze mid-step. Big Ben solemnly chimed a quarter after one, and the air became chilly at once. Streetlights, bunching together under the arch, blinked nervously and suddenly scattered.

 

Dick Whittington knew very well what it could signify. Danger. He firmly gripped the top of his cane and glanced around. The street was completely barren of life, and the silence, unnerving and almost sepulchral, slowly filled the surroundings. Not a rustle, not a rat’s squeak. Through the silence Dick Whittington heard someone stomping, and the stomping didn’t belong to a human being: too heavy and too frequent it trod, not the tramps of some boots, but that of a large beast. Almost of its own accord, his hand reached for the amulet on a massive golden chain around his neck, symbol of his authority. It could ward off the creature, ward off many other lurking perils, but chances were fifty-fifty: there could always be creatures indifferent to his status.

 

Gradually, cautiously peering into the murky night, Dick Whittington kept to the walls of the houses, heading for the archway where streetlights had been previously ensconced. The windows of the houses disclosed absolute darkness, not even a flurry of a curtain; the whole district froze stock still, dead, in an unnatural, frightening torpor.

 

Under the arch he leaned against the cold, uneven stones, listening hard to the increasing stillness and counting seconds. He could pass under the vault of the arch and hide in the alley, but the thick obscurity of night swayed its drape at the opposite end of it. Dick Whittington learnt well a long time ago what someone who let their guard down could expect on the other side of the darkness. 

 

He pressed his back against the stones, thinking that his noisy, hoarse breathing couldn’t possibly go unheeded, but hoped for the creature to be in a hurry to mind its own business and for the stench of rat droppings, always abundantly present in the back streets, to overlap his own.

 

Dense darkness was pierced by a quiet and thin giggle. Dick Whittington turned towards the sound, but didn’t make out its source.

 

“Ding dong! Ding dong!” it started singing. “Ding dong, ding dong, Lord Mayor Whittington.”

 

He wanted to ask who that was, but his own voice would’ve momentarily echoed and resounded from the walls of the arch.

 

Sounds were getting closer. The beast ran faster.

 

“Ding dong, Whittington,” the voice kept on ringing, “In our big Lon-don.”

 

In that moment he realised he didn’t hear the steps anymore. Dick Whittington slowly turned round and saw the gigantic hound. A black hound, an old legend, unseen for at least a few centuries since Newgate’s Maiden left her post of duty. It occupied the whole of the arch passage, the slits of its eyes glowing with hunger.

 

“Ding dong,” said the voice.

 

The hound opened its mouth, baring its fangs, and readied itself for the attack.

 

“Lord Mayor Whittington,” rang the singsong voice again. “Ding dong, ding ding dong, that’s the end of Lon-don.”

 

“What?” He realised there was no sense in keeping silence. “Name yourself! What do you want?”

 

The voice laughed, with an iridescent cadence to it.

 

“Ding dong, Lon-don. Not today, Whittington.”

 

With obvious reluctance, the hound shut its mouth and bowed its head, flashing a glare full of malignance in Dick Whittington’s direction. Its charcoal shadow bolted away into the darkness. The voice disappeared too and never came back. Lord Mayor Whittington left the arch passage, leaning heavily on his cane, and through the droplets of sweat that dripped from his forehead and into his eyes he saw the doors of the houses slam back and forth with loud thumping. Haphazard streetlights shone on the street once more.

 

\- 0 -

 

Margaret met him three blocks away from her post. She was permitted such liberty, and strictly speaking, oftentimes it entered the circle of her direct responsibilities.

 

Unmistakably, she always knew when he was supposed to come; she knew it in a way usually inaccessible to cats, rather in a way that dogs or very good friends knew, and she always went out to meet him. Her bright, glimmering eyes suggested reproach.

 

“Oh, Margaret,” said Dick Whittington, squatting to the ground and petting his old friend’s head. “I know that our previous meeting was three months ago, and this is inadmissibly long.”

 

Over a minute, Margaret was gazing at him with a proud and condemnatory air before she relented and rubbed against his leg showing that his apology was accepted and that she understood. Lord Mayor couldn’t always walk across half of the city to meet his friend. In all frankness, Lord Mayor didn’t have free evenings as such. Meanwhile, Margaret had her own responsibilities and her own post which she could leave only in case of emergencies as, for instance, it was the case two weeks ago. But those rules were set not by them and they weren’t the ones to change them.

 

At a leisurely pace, Dick and Margaret set out ahead and enjoyed their companionable stroll for a while.

 

“You know, I went to the Market the other day. They have shipped the assortment of goods from Celestial Peking; the horrendous racket it made was enough to disperse the mist. They’ve scared off the whole quorum of ravens in the area. I fail to recall such throngs since ignis fatuus hovered over the city. They say even Lord Ink-Keeper was seen; he probably arrived in order to purchase scarlet ink and brushes made of a kitsune’s tail. Though, I don’t think he made it in time; half of them were bought before the night fully descended. Oh yes, rumours had it that Honorable Di began his reformations in Peking again. We ought to prepare a raven with the letter to deliver it at least to the border; I haven’t heard from him for a long while. There’s no making head or tail of it. Last time I came upon similar tumult it was precisely before the Tower went off its rocket. Alas, I can’t find a spare minute to visit the raven nest. Not a moment to lose.”

 

Margaret listened to him with close attention, sometimes turning her head and perking up her ears in order to show that she was following his monologue.

 

“Today I went to see the Lions,” Dick Whittington continued. “Twelve days of patrolling and all for naught. Anteros was reticent as though he was in Brixton and not on Piccadilly. Judge for yourself, how can you spend day and night in such places and know absolutely nothing? Winged bastard! Flirting with ladies and picking on decent mates - that’s all he’s good for. I’ve been meaning to cut down his salary for ages and send him to the Tunnels for a fortnight or two.”

 

Margaret flashed him a quizzical look.

 

“You think I’m unfair to him?” Dick asked, surprised. “What good does he do? He’s not sitting there for decoration! Because… But then,” Lord Mayor heaved a deep sigh, his shoulders drooping at once, “You’re right, my dear. It’s the nerves talking, but as things stand there’s no other way. We’ve already given it a try but no good came out of it… Mind if we sit for a bit?” He pointed his cane towards a lop-sided bench, which stood alien and solitary in the midst of the street. He sank down on it with a heavy thud, fiddling with the collar of his shirt. The cat sprung on his lap and looked up into his eyes. “Oh, Margaret, we’ve wronged those good people. It should have gone differently! It’s all my fault. I should have known. Only the old lady managed to preserve her sanity, but it’s not my merit, it’s thanks to the Lion who promptly reported a stranger.If we hadn’t led her away before the Bushes got to her… One mistake after another. What if they remember? What if they start talking? There will always be someone to ask the right questions!”

 

Margaret shook her head from side to side and jerked her tail.

 

“No one will believe them, yes,” Dick nodded. “But what if someone does? They have created us just like we have created them. There will always be someone who can. You know perfectly well that there’s no brick wall betwixt us. It’s more of a thin veil that can be easily penetrated, should one know where to make the first step.”

 

Margaret shot her friend a derisive glance and settled cosily on his lap.

 

“You know I might have just thought of a plan that could work, but…” Dick trailed off. “Margaret, I’m scared. What happened there… I haven’t told a soul, and no one knows, otherwise the entire city would’ve gotten a hold of it, but…” He inhaled deeply. “I inspected the building after he was murdered and I found little Bailey. He was tiny, a tiniest baby. He was lying in the basement among the boxes as though he was hidden there or he himself wanted to hide from someone.”

 

Margaret pricked up her ears and let out a short meow.

 

“Yes, I know. Come to think of it, something similar was supposed to happen since we can’t be killed as long as we’re needed there, but I wasn’t prepared, I just wasn’t. I’ve been waiting for his return, but the baby… It means only one thing – he has none of his strength. It wasn’t just a murder, Margaret, do you understand? He would have restored himself over the night if it had been just some lunatic who thrust a knife into him. But the thing that dared to raise its hand against Bailey… That creature consumed all his powers, all to the last drop. And it’s old Bailey we’re talking about! Dear me!”

 

Dick pulled out a handkerchief to wipe beads of sweat that appeared on his forehead from emotion, and continued, “Newgate’s Maiden is taking care of him at the moment. He’s gathering his strength back, he’s growing, but it’s too slow. Blast it, how slow it is, and I have doubts it shall not be the end of it. It doesn’t look like an act of revenge, and besides, no one held any grudges against him. He was a gentleman all over, old school, if you know what I mean. Someone here is killing with dedication and will persevere, while we shall be helpless to do anything to put an end to it, to do anything sensible. Bloody jurisdiction! Even you are tied to your stone, and I’m not all powerful either. We both have our limits, we’re constrained. I have no authority over the whole half of the city, even. Tunnels, the Bushes, the Tower, Kensington Labyrinth… Bloody darkness!”  

 

Dick Whittington paused for a moment, his thoughtful eyes coming to rest on the wall opposite them. There was a stone gargoyle climbing up the vertical, clumsily and by slow degrees, her wings folded behind her back for better convenience.

 

“We’re powerless here, and those occasional people weren’t of any help either. Now I realise how presumptuous it had been on my part. They’re like children in our world, if not worse. They’ve only harmed themselves. We’re going to give it one last try before it’s too late. This time I’ve chosen the best of the best. Just one small investigation in London, at least that was in my power… His name is Sherlock Holmes, and in this city he is the best one. And we, as you very well realise, cannot settle for less.” Absent-mindedly, he petted Margaret’s head and, after waiting for her to jump off his lap, forced himself to get on his feet, supporting himself with his cane.

 

“We ought to meet him. We cannot let the same thing happen to him.”

 

\- 0 -

 

It was already the dead of night when Sherlock Holmes left Ruth Adenberg’s house. The conversation consumed a lot more time than expected. Sherlock glanced around himself. He was surrounded by pedestrian, nondescript houses, low hedges and meticulously trimmed gardens. He found it difficult to catch a decent taxi in this particular district and without much deliberation got on the first bus to the centre. 

 

Leaning against the back of the seat and half-closing his eyes so he wouldn’t be distracted by other people, he started to process the information he had obtained during the questioning. Mrs. Adenberg’s story was undoubtedly relevant to the case: the fog, the bus, the odd place she supposedly reappeared at. The picture would’ve been painted perfectly well, had it not been for one significant fact: all of what she had said sounded downright nonsensical. Moreover, that nonsense was delivered with sheer conviction in its veracity. For her age, Ruth was a woman of reasonable mind, for the most part due to her military past: she had a rank of officer, she passed the war and developed nerves of steel and practical judgment. She wasn’t inclined to embroider the reality of life and her story didn’t abound in heart-rending detail of which old ladies were sometimes very fond of; she was talking about things she was fully convinced in.

 

The most verisimilar version that would unite disappearances and ravings included the drug use. It would have been excellent if it wasn’t for the tests that showed no traces or residues of foreign substances in their bloodstream. However, Sherlock, better than anybody else, knew that any equipment could be fooled by synthetic compounds, virtually untraceable during the test run.

 

The positive result of the drug tests would’ve explained the source of the delusion, but it could hardly justify the common element: the uniformity of hallucinations that consisted of the fog, streetlights and the bus. Besides, the reasons behind the disappearances remained unidentified, much like their variable duration, apart from the fact that women seemed to have sustained the drug better than men and preserved their sanity, although the initial resistive capacity against narcotics was considered to be lower in women.

 

Sherlock scrunched up his face. It didn’t add up.

 

The only substance that according to the symptoms could unite anxiety, hallucinations, paranoia and fear, and would be administered into the system by means of injection (other methods were highly unlikely) was LSD and its derivatives. Nevertheless, one fact remained inescapable. The community of delusions left a lot of questions.

 

Drugs could dredge up emotions and feelings out of the depths of the unconscious, but there could not be two personalities with identical interpretation of reality. It was virtually impossible to procure a similar effect from two different people.

 

The only theory that seemed fairly plausible was the appearance of a new medical preparation on the market, and thus ensued its peculiar ‘testing’. It would elucidate so many things: victims were picked up randomly on the streets and injected with the required dosage to cause hallucinations. Brought into the desirable condition, people were abducted, and their reactions to the drug were monitored, afterwards they were released. The absence of any positive reaction to the drug test could be attributed to the amount of time that had passed therefore allowing the hallucinogen to leave the blood stream.

 

Sherlock locked his fingers. He needed an urgent visit to his MindPalace, but not on the bus. He didn’t know how much time it would take and in what state he would surface back on the forefront of his consciousness, into the normal world. Besides, people could get in the way. He always could alienate himself from everything – conversations, movements, scents; the brain always functioned better in ideal conditions, without the outer stimuli. And so, as soon as the bus reached the centre, he hurried to leave it, hailed a cab and in ten minutes was already falling onto the couch in his own living room. He habitually closed his eyes shut, gliding away onto another level of reality, the one that existed solely in his head.

 

There weren’t any passages, corridors or doors. There wasn’t anything that could simplify a change of perception for ordinary people, not even symbols. Sherlock closed his eyes in his living room and opened them in a completely different place. It looked like a warehouse, a museum, and a habitable premise. It looked like everything at once. The room was unbounded; its walls lost themselves in a distorted space. Its visible part was filled with bookcases and shelves, desks and drawers, folders and papers. Thread-like laces hung from the ceiling with notes on the pegs, and the slightest gust of air caused a mild rustling of paper scraps. All kinds of weapons of various sizes and properties were kept here and there: knives, daggers, machine guns of different calibers, slipknots, pistols, spears, swords, crossbows … There were other shelves with what seemed like random sets of objects. If an outsider saw that collection, he wouldn’t be able to pin down any regularity in their disposition. But for Sherlock Holmes, everything was at its proper place, and every object united with others into the integral system. He could move amongst there, even in the dark. The room contained everything he had collected during all his life. Knowledge. Sorted and catalogued, ordered, and in the utmost preservation. 

 

Sherlock headed for the huge filing cabinet which almost touched the ceiling and gave shelter to hundreds of little drawers. Instantaneously, obeying his will, some of them opened.

 

With a light smirk on his lips, Sherlock ran his fingers over the backs of the folders. Narcotic substances. Classification, manufacturing, effect, area of distribution. There were a lot of them which he knew first-hand. He knew everything there was to know.

 

Sedatives, opiates, neuroleptics, cannabinoids, hallucinogens, psychostimulants… Effect, uses, symptoms. He didn’t need to flip through all the folders, but he did it anyway, just in case. It was a kind of sentimental homage to his old times. He liked thinking back to every grain of carefully saved information, to every case of his.

 

Actually, it was because of the cases that he was there, in his MindPalace. He needed those that were connected to introduction of new medications on the market as, for instance, was the case of Betsy Dorhine in 2003. She tried to smuggle and to test the preparation she had invented on her own, behind the back of all the bigwigs of drug business industry in England. At that time Sherlock was also using and was known as a very, very grateful and reliable client.

 

Having made sure that the details of those cases he investigated in relation to drugs for the most part correlated with this one, Sherlock left the MindPalace after sliding his palm along the smooth surface of the bookshelf.

 

In matter of seconds he was standing back in his room again, and a few minutes later he was already walking towards the BritishMuseum, his collar lifted high up his neck.

 

\- 0 -

 

He found what he was searching for in one of the back streets, not far away from the museum.

 

“Barry.”

 

“Mr. ‘Olmes!” The bloke that was enthusiastically scouring someone else’s purse jumped up at the greeting. “I ‘aven’t seen ye for ages.”

 

“I had no reason,” answered Sherlock dryly. “Tell me, is Derek still in business?”

 

“Mr. Render?” The bloke’s eyes widened. “I ‘aven’t the foggiest, Mr. ‘Olmes. Ain’t me area.”

 

“Don’t lie to me.” Sherlock fished for a twenty pound bank note in his wallet. “A year ago it was very well yours.”

 

The bank note promptly disappeared in the bloke’s nimbly fingers before Sherlock even fully extended his hand. The boy shrugged.

 

“I left ‘em. Thought of becomin’ a pickpocket. Ye know it’s a dog’s job and teemin’ with danger. Pinchin’ is more up me alley, tourists and dough. I ‘ave a good share and I only report if anyone’s interested in anythin’ peculiar.”

 

“Colour me interested.”

 

“Mr. ‘Olmes?”

 

“I need a personal appointment with Derek Render, at seven in the evening. If you’re quick enough to make it less than in an hour, you’ll get another fifty. You know where to find me.”

 

“Yup, Mr. ‘Olmes!” The bloke swiftly turned and vanished into the darkness of the streets.

 

\- 0 -

 

Arriving at the appointed place Sherlock discovered that he was already expected, although he made it there fifteen minutes earlier, only by luck escaping the traffic hour. Derek Render was languidly smoking on the stairs of the London Aquarium and from time to time readjusted his scarf.

 

Sherlock didn’t even say hello.

 

“’ _On_ _the Easter Island’_?” he imitated, grinning. “Since when are you such a joy bringer?”

 

“So what?” Render shrugged his shoulders and took a puff at his cigarette. “You very well know it has replicas of famous statues from that island, and so do I. We perfectly understood each other. It’s a good place, crowded. And couriers are better be left in the dark about it. Now make me happy, Sherlock, have you decided to come back to old habits or do you need my services again?” 

 

Holmes shook his head.

 

“Don’t get your hopes up. I’m done. I just need information.”

 

“Oh,” Render rolled the fag end between his fingers. “Information is very valuable these times.”

 

Sherlock’s face momentarily dropped its put-upon amicable expression.

 

“Don’t go too far. Have you forgotten how many times I got your back?”

 

“In exchange for the junk. It’s you who shouldn’t go too far,” he sighed. “Sherlock, don’t take me for a berk. I haven’t been running this business for nothing. Right now you’re kissing the bobbies’ arses. I don’t work with the fuzz.”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips, eyes narrowing. He didn’t feel the slightest inclination to continue this talk longer than necessary.

 

“Neither do I. It’s they who work with me. From you I need only the answer to one question. I can guarantee that all the information about this business of yours won’t fall into the wrong hands.”

 

“I see,” Render smirked and turned to look at the London Eye whose blue lights shone bright against the dark sky. “You are the same old git you always were. Ask away.”

 

“LSD derivatives. Were there any new goods on the market lately? Will there be any in the near future? Any new thing will do.”

 

“No. The entire assortment is under my control. Nothing new for the past year.”

 

“Right.”

 

Immediately losing interest in both the conversation and Render, Sherlock briskly whirled on his heels and left. He got what he wanted. And his freshly-constructed theory went to dust.

 

He descended towards the riverbank and headed for WestminsterBridge. His head teemed with dozens of other versions which rapidly accumulated the facts and disintegrated just as fast to be reborn again. Did Derek lie? Did he tell him the truth? He needed to get information from other dealers as well, he needed to double-check his data, needed to know about new laboratory developments…

 

He felt like he could use a cigarette.

 

He didn’t realise as he reached the base of the bridge until something scratched the edge of his consciousness. Sherlock glanced around himself. Everything went still and he couldn’t see a soul. Wreathes of fog started to spread from under the bridge. It was dense and white, even too white. White as smoke. Just in case Sherlock took a deep sniff of air. No scent.

 

The fog came up in spirals and patterns. It steamed, and it steamed from under the bridge. Far away at a distance, a streetlight twinkled and went off. Another one lit up, a few steps closer. Sherlock looked around. Everything was submerged into the thick fog so that nothing further five feet away from him was distinguishable.

 

At a certain moment he realised he wasn’t thinking clearly anymore. His head felt vague as though a filter was inserted in there to slow down and to truncate all his thoughts. Holmes ventured a few steps ahead and reeled; his body went stiff and unresponsive.

 

 _‘What did this imbecile inject me with? I need a formula, a formula’_ , his last thought flowed viscously along his fading mind. Moments later, Sherlock couldn’t see and couldn’t feel anything anymore.

 

\- 0 -

 

Darkness.

 

Sherlock flicked his eyes open, fighting a transient fit of faintness. The darkness didn’t retreat, but the Thames and the London Eye did, along with the riverbank. He took a profound breath and had to cough at once; the air was unfamiliar. It wasn’t gas-polluted and it wasn’t poisonous, but it was very… it was different. Sometimes Sherlock registered similar changes when travelling. Only here the sensation was stronger and went deeper, as though not only the percentage of the chemical elements was altered, but the elements themselves. As though he wasn’t breathing oxygen, but something entirely different.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes shut and sighed again. He didn’t want to cough anymore, but the air remained the same. Thick, strange and unfamiliar.

 

He opened his eyes again and finally identified his whereabouts. He was on Piccadilly, no doubt there. Sherlock took a proper look around. It was indeed Piccadilly Circus, but not the same one he sauntered along just yesterday.

 

Changes?

 

Houses looked a lot newer than usual. There weren’t any persistent neon signs. Streets were deserted, not a car or a bus parked in the vicinity. Instead of the enormous ad screens that had already wormed their way into the post cards there were none the less enormous pictures. Monet’s canvases. A few Degas’ works and Van Gogh’s _The Starry Night_. A famous fountain stood in the middle of the Circus, crowned with a statue of Anteros. With one amendment to it: there was no Anteros on top.

 

Interesting.

 

People seemed to be moving about the Circus, but Sherlock’s glance couldn’t properly grasp anyone. Their shadows were sliding along the sidewalks, not touching him and carefully skirting his figure. Some of the shadows had the outlines of ladies and gentlemen in Victorian garments.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes again. A childish habit that one was, somehow still extant in his consciousness, rendering it much easier to navigate the information.

 

Nothing changed.

 

A couple of streetlights were on, but he couldn’t understand how they possibly managed to dispel the darkness, their light too dim and weak. Sherlock raised his head. Not a star in the sky, not a trace of the moon. Only the solid grey-black dome over the city which seemed almost artificial.

 

Back in his young years, Holmes experimented a lot with drugs, but he never experienced anything of the kind. Why did Derek inject him with this drug? Was he afraid of interrogations? Most likely. Which meant there _was_ something new on the market. But what was the purpose of drugging him? Render didn’t benefit from it at all.

 

Narcotic trips weren’t news for Sherlock. He conducted a vast number of experiments to learn to control his mind and finally succeeded in full manageability of his own hallucinations. It had been then that he invented his MindPalace; in its essence, a very handy hallucination which helped him think and didn’t require large doses of drugs. Afterwards, he had to cease those experiments; even his strength of will was susceptible to addiction.

 

Well then, for starters he could attempt to switch on the stars. It was always easier to begin with small things.

 

Sherlock shut his eyes again and concentrated, releasing his mind of useless thoughts. Where was he now? There, on the riverbank? Or had someone already called the ambulance? Didn’t matter. Wasn’t relevant. He concentrated, visualised the desirable image and fluttered his eyes open.

 

There were no stars. The Circus remained the same.

 

“Any luck?” asked a caustic, husky voice from the stairs that led to the fountain. Sherlock came closer. There was a human skull lying on the stone step. Its jaw wasn’t moving, frozen in an eternal grin, but it kept emitting sounds. “Welcome to Non London, young Sir.” 

 

Sherlock’s head burst with ideas. First: it wasn’t a trip. Second: the drug was indeed a new invention and somehow influenced his self-control, even such strong as Sherlock’s. Both possibilities weren’t to his liking.

 

The circumstances begged for the solution Holmes resorted to every time he didn’t have enough time to process incoming information or when the stream of data was too abundant. His solution was to turn off his rationality and just perceive things as they were. It was convenient; it didn’t overburden his consciousness and allowed him to file the information for later perusal. If he was standing on Piccadilly and the sky lacked stars while shadows of people ghosted by him and a skull talked, such analysis was hardly the wisest course of action. The situation aggravated since he had no reason to distrust his own senses.

 

Sherlock approached the steps, pulled off his glove, and touched his finger to the stone. Coarse. Cold. Real. He went up to the bowl, lingered there for a second while peering into the water, then touched its surface. Ordinary, cold and wet.

 

“You’re not sleeping, if you care to know,” the skull clarified.

 

Not paying it any heed, Holmes went down the stairs back to the Circus and resolutely strode towards the nearest shadow. Their meeting was unsuccessful; the figure skirted him at the last moment.

 

“Hey, do you even hear me?” the skull insisted.

 

“I prefer not to converse with hallucinations,” Sherlock noted, belying his own principle as he did so, and proceeded further, bypassing the fountain. The flagstones felt odd under his feet, solid and smooth.

 

“Why are you so sure I’m a hallucination?” asked the skull and went silent for a while. Not receiving any reply, he expanded, “I’m Henry.”

 

“Why Piccadilly, exactly?” Sherlock voiced his thought. “Why not my apartment, why not Kensington, for instance?”

 

“Because you were sent to a relatively safe place,” the skull gave its prompt response. “Well, at least Anteros says so.”

 

Sherlock turned, stepped closer and picked up the skull from the stairs.

 

“Careful there,” the head warned.

 

It kept on speaking, not using its jaw in the slightest. Its exterior remained utterly unmoving.

 

With a free hand, Holmes tugged his phone out of his pocket. The screen was dark and dead, and no amount of button pushing yielded any positive results. The detective sat down on the stairs, the skull still clasped between his hands. It was yet too early to assess the situation. He suddenly remembered Doctor Milligan’s words about rational people who became insane when failing to understand what was going on with them if it drastically differed from normal reality. For the first time in his life Sherlock could actually agree with the therapist.

 

“How are you holding up?” the skull inquired in a compassionate tone. It seemed completely unperturbed by his interlocutor’s lack of loquacity. “You seem quite alright. Lord Mayor was worried for nothing.”

 

“Where’s the sculpture?” Sherlock asked, deciding to venture a question of a neutral sort. “There’s a sculpture on the fountain.”

 

“Anteros? It flew away. Had some urgent errand to run. But I know this bugger, always a skirt-chaser. Lord Mayor asked him to meet you, but he dumped it on me, and that was the last of him. Listen, who are you if even Mayor Whittington sends Anteros for you?”

 

“Why don’t I see anyone?” asked Sherlock in a tense voice.

 

“I take it you’re not a particularly polite person,” the skull observed. “You don’t see because you’re a stranger and because you don’t believe. You people, you are strange folk. You see only those things you believe in. You know that Piccadilly exists and hundreds of people before you knew that it existed – and that’s why you see it. You don’t even think about the fact that it exists. You just know it. But you can’t know anything about the dwellers of our city just yet.”

 

“This place doesn’t look like it usually does.” Talking to the skull appeared to be unexpectedly hard for Sherlock. But if it was a hallucination, what difference would it make?

 

The skull sort of sighed.

 

“Your ideas can’t hold down the entire square. There were thousands and thousands of people here, and the city can’t possibly pander to all of those instantaneous alterations. Are you going to say who you are or not?”

 

“Sherlock Holmes.” Perhaps, for the first time in his life the detective felt unsure. This feeling didn’t seem like a pleasant one. He had to control himself. He couldn’t analyse, he could only gather information.

 

“You’re from an ancient city; what are you doing in Non London?”

 

“I haven’t the faintest.”

 

“Amusing.” The skull slightly fidgeted, settling more comfortable on the detective’s lap. “I don’t recall such an influx of strangers since the times of the war. Back then there were a whole lot of them, flocking like bees to honey. You know I actually love talking very much, but one doesn’t find any company here. Anteros would always chat about the ladies, all he’s good for, that old tosser, and I’m not very interested. Although, his pictures are quite beautiful.”

 

They sat in silence for some time. The fog crawled out from somewhere but almost immediately spread around the Circus, so its layer was rather thin and barely visible.

 

Sherlock knew he ran the risk of coming to undesirable conclusions, to doubts, to understanding that his own senses tricked him. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He was simply collecting the data, simply observing. The starting point, Sherlock decided, was the concession that all that was happening to him wasn’t an acid trip. It just couldn’t be one; all his sensations spoke of reality, of normal human reality, despite the fact that almost nothing around him could be defined as either real or normal.

 

If Sherlock Holmes were ever to become insane, it would be due to doubts, to the realisation that his senses betrayed him, that the control he always had went haywire and that the ordered reality he thought he knew was tearing apart at the seams.

 

“Hey,” the skull called out. “Your heart hammers against your ribcage so hard it’s going to toss me up. You’re not going to lose it, are you?”

 

“Of course not,” Sherlock replied, keeping his voice cool.

 

“Good. I’d be loath to upset Lord Mayor. He’s had a lot on his plate recently. Wait for him, he’ll be here shortly, I can feel it.”

 

Sherlock jerked up his head, glancing around the Circus.

 

“Don’t twist your head round, you won’t see him anyway until he comes closer. He hasn’t yet crossed the borders of Piccadilly.”

 

Far at a distance, Sherlock heard footsteps and thudding of a cane against the flagstones. The noise resounded over the whole ring, although the acoustics laws shouldn’t have allowed it to spread in such space. Footsteps were getting closer. Sherlock looked harder into the dim light, trying to make out at least something, but he still failed to capture the moment when another person appeared in the Circus. It was as though he surfaced out of the night between a pair of streetlights and headed for the stairs where Sherlock was sitting.

 

“Hello, Mr. Holmes,” a stranger greeted, touching a hand to his high hat. “My name is Dick Whittington. Welcome to Non London.”

 

Next to the man’s feet, a big cat let out a meow and flashed its amber eyes at Sherlock.

 

“Oh, yes. This is Margaret, my assistant and an old friend.”

 

Sherlock was curiously taking stock of those two. Dick Whittington was a robust, stumpy man, clad in the clothes of the century before last; a shirt with rich sleeves, a justaucorps, and high boots. He even carried a cane, a long one, with a heavy round knob for a head.

 

“Hello,” the detective finally greeted. “Obviously, you’re someone who will explain to me what’s going on?”

 

Dick Whittington sat down next to Holmes.

 

“It’s very simple. I decided to hire you. Isn’t that the reason why people make appointments with private detectives?”

 

“I’m a consulting detective. And you, with a seventy percent probability, are my hallucination.”

 

“You see, Mr. Holmes,” Lord Mayor let the remark pass, “Murders have taken place in our city, very unusual murders. Someone’s killing our most important… citizens, yet we’re not so easy to kill. Much to my chagrin, I can’t solve this problem on my own.”

 

“You’re not explaining anything right now.” Sherlock’s head started to produce a thin ringing, and a disgusting one at that, as though an alarm went off somewhere nearby.

 

“That is precisely what I’m doing. First, we have tried to attract someone from your world without a specific method, but it didn’t bear any fruit. We need someone from your city, someone who is accustomed to murders and has a profound knowledge of the motives for which they occur.”

 

The ringing became louder. Sherlock shook his head.

 

“To investigate murders in a city that doesn’t exist? Why do you think I’ll agree?”

 

“Because you are the best. I have gathered information about you, Mr. Holmes. You’re the best sleuth in London and you are the only one who can help us.”

 

“Nonsense.” His eyes felt misty and Sherlock thought he was going to fall asleep.

 

The cat sprang onto his lap, and breathing became better.

 

“Think, Mr. Holmes,” Whittington said, his voice subtle. “Not a single sleuth can conduct investigations in Non London and none will be able to, not ever. This is the case no one will ever offer you.”

 

“Why should I believe you?”

 

“Oh, you will, Mr. Holmes. You will, and quite soon. Mr. Holmes?”

 

Sherlock didn’t hear him. The ringing in his head muffled the rest of the sounds, and fog obstructed his view completely; the cat wasn’t helping it anymore.

 

Margaret meowed anxiously. Lord Mayor sighed.

 

“Yes, you’re right. This in-between condition will only harm him. Skeptics are most harder to deal with. How long has he been sitting here, Henry?”

 

“About a half an hour, my Lord,” the skull answered. “But he talks.”

 

Dick Whittington sighed again.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything, Henry. He’s simply strong, but like everyone else he cannot fully believe in it, which means he cannot fully see it. That is why he’s only partly in the city, and this dualitytakes him a lot of strength to maintain, even if he cannot realise it. Give me your hand, Mr. Holmes, if you still hear me. Mr. Holmes? Give me your hand.”

 

Sherlock raised his listless hand and stretched it out. Lord Mayor took off his glove, firmly clasped the detective’s hand and pulled him on his feet.

 

“Now, look!”

 

Sherlock shuddered, feeling like he was drawn out of the cocoon that had been strangling him this entire time. Dick Whittington’s hand was strong and warm, and very real, even frighteningly so. He looked up and saw. He finally saw the city.

 

They were standing on Piccadilly, but it wasn’t so obscure anymore. Of course, the night was still reigning over the city and streetlights did very little to help it, but somehow every crack on the flagstones became distinguishable and every window acquired more definite outlines. The houses that embraced the Circus filled the atmosphere with fresh colours as though they were pictures on the painted cards that were usually on stands in Covent Garden. And people were there, too, those same people who seemed dim shadows now were quite living and real. Some of them wore clothes of the nineteenth century; others were dressed in unimaginable rags that consisted of feathers, skins, cellophane bags and whatnot. They all hurried on their business taking no interest in the group that had gathered next to the fountain. At a distance, Sherlock clearly saw the border of the Circus, a transparent membrane which sometimes rippled when too many people passed through it. The wind that came from Sherlock’s right ruffled his hair, wafting unfamiliar, unstudied scents. The air didn’t feel strange anymore.

 

Dick Whittington let go of his hand, and Holmes sagged back onto the stairs. Colours got less garish, but he continued to perceive it in the whole volume.

 

“Why… colours?” he whispered, gasping for breath.

 

“That’s how I see the city,” Lord Mayor answered simply, sitting down next to him. “But you’d have to live here for a very long time to see them at their brightest. It’s quite stressful for you now, Mr. Holmes, that’s why I don’t wish to fatigue you. I shall tell you only the important part. Listen to me attentively. Are you willing to take this case?”

 

“You haven’t even told me the details.” Sherlock’s head felt like it was about to split in half, and judging by the intensity of sensations, it seemed to already have done so; that had to be the reason behind the dull pain and uncertainty.

 

“I’m afraid I have no time for briefing you. I’m Lord Mayor after all. I don’t have a minute to spare. I see that you already got to know Henry. He will tell you everything, and I’ll let him into the details. He’s an old-timer and will help you navigate the city. You’ll receive my personal stamp and no one will dare harm you, apart from the most desperate ones though, but they’re not many.”

 

Sherlock nodded automatically, trying to concentrate, which became harder and harder by the second.

 

“Stupid,” he noted, forcing himself not to clutch at his head from all the thoughts that jumped at him with frenzied velocity. “I don’t know this… city and right now I’m going out of my way to simply concentrate. What have you done to me?”

 

“I’ve slightly accelerated your acclimatisation. Everything shall be fine. You don’t have a choice, Mr. Holmes. You’re our only chance, and I hope you’ll help us. You could, of course…” Dick’s voice hardened and his old eyes acquired a frighteningly grave expression and- and Sherlock didn’t even know the epithets for that, and his confused mind failed to provide any. “You could go back and forget about everything, as all normal people do, but you know it’s not a dream and it’s not a delusion. Deep down you know that what’s happening to you is real and it’s just as real as your own world. If you refuse, you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

 

All of a sudden, and very brightly at that, Sherlock imagined himself living in London and going on his business while every moment of his existence would be poisoned with the ‘what if’ question.

 

It was hard to think. ‘Accelerated acclimatisation’ was taking all his strength.

 

“After all, even if it was a drug-induced dream, it wouldn’t commit you to anything.”

 

“What are these murders which you mentioned?”

 

“You’ll be briefed later, you’re in no position to sustain a long conversation now.”

 

Sherlock gave a small nod, utterly exhausted.

 

“Without any… guarantee,” it became hard to speak, too.

 

“Excellent!” Mayor pulled out a piece of parchment from under his justacorps. There was written something in there. “Place your hand on it. Just your hand.”

 

Sherlock touched the contract, and there appeared a neat sign as though his own.

 

“And now…” Dick Whittington got up to his feet and pulled Sherlock, too. “You need to rest, Mr. Holmes. You’ll be back. Here.” He put a massive ring on the detective’s finger; it was made of black stone and carried a fanciful monogram which Sherlock couldn’t inspect for the time being. “It’s my personal stamp. It will help you… Although, wait a moment,” Lord Mayor stood thoughtful for a minute, calculating in his mind. Sherlock felt uneasy again and his thoughts started to wander off, desperately fighting his attempt to keep them all together. “You won’t make it on your own. Let’s do this. You’ll take a cab. You ought to go to the right, then two blocks to the left and until the first streetlight.”

 

“What kind of nonsense is that?”

 

“Remember, Mr. Holmes. First to the right, then two blocks to the left and until the first streetlight. And now…” Dick Whittington stepped a few feet aside and gripped his cane tighter. “Goodnight, Mr. Holmes.”

 

His heavy-tipped cane made a whish in the air and with an unexpectedly soft thump collided with the detective’s temple. Sherlock fell flat on the stairs accepting the oncoming darkness with a feeling of utmost relief.

 

“I know, Margaret, I know,” a familiar voice reached him from afar. “But there was no other way.”

 

\- 0 -

 

“LondonBridge is falling down… falling down… falling down…” a high, slightly tinkling voice was coming closer and closer, struggling its way through the mist. The tapping of the heels along the pavement dispelled the silence of the night.

 

“LondonBridge is falling down, what shall we build it up withal?” the little voice let out a brisk laugh and then was thrown out of rhythm. “Really, what with?”

 

A woman of average height stepped out of the mist, a grey, furry coat embracing her shoulders. Her body completely lost itself in the broad lapels of her coat and it was impossible to make out the outlines of her figure. High heels stopped their knocking next to the old building in the centre of London.

 

“Hello, Paul…” the woman all but sang and shifted to one side. The shadow she threw on the pavement split in twain under the glow of the adjacent streetlight, then dissolved for a moment and collected itself back again. “Shiny domes. The front entrance. You’re so proud of yourself, aren’t you? Will you let a little Bermondsey girl warm up inside you?”

 

Muttering under her breath and shifting from foot to foot, the woman lingered by the door.

 

“Present arms!” she all but squeaked, shaking five fat rats out of one of her sleeves. The rodents obediently scattered in all directions. The doors of the Cathedral swung open with a light snap.

 

“Hello, hello, Paul,” she sang, proceeding into the darkness. “You have it different here than in Bermondsey, I see. I think I might just stay.”

 

The door closed. Yellow mist was flowing along the street, skirting the streetlights. The woman’s shadow, as though hesitating, drew itself under the door, hissing something in an almost inaudible hiss. The bell chimed a hollow sound. There came a noise from behind the door, then a click and still then something heavy fell down. For a blink of a moment, a flick of light shimmered in the crack between the two doors. It was gone as quickly as it appeared.

 

“LondonBridge is falling down… falling down…” a thin little voice sang behind the misty wall. “What shall we build it up withal, my fair lady?”

 

\- 0 -

 

“Inspector, it’s unacceptable!”

 

Lestrade gave a small nod, tapping a text message for Sally with his hands hidden beneath the desk. Donovan was the best one when it came to talking with this kind of people.

 

“But you must act upon it!” the visitor sounded like she was tearing up her vocal chords. “It’s vandalism, that’s what it is!”

 

“Of course, Mrs. Edison, we’ll do what we can… Oh, here’s Sergeant Donovan, she’ll lend you an attentive ear and will file a complaint for further proceedings.”

 

With a professional smile pinned to her face, Sally steered the quarrelsome woman into her office. Lestrade sighed. Vandalism, of course. Like he didn’t have enough problems already.

 

And where the hell was Sherlock?

 

The detective’s mobile was silent for a week. Certainly, Holmes wasn’t the one to pick up at the very first call, but he didn’t usually ignore Lestrade so studiously. Did he go somewhere with no signal? Maybe, but it still remained odd. He always preferred to cut down to a minimum all his trips outside London. And now he seemed to be loafing about in some backwoods of England for seven days at a stretch, that with an unsolved case on his hands. That was very unlike him.

 

Despite the unlikeness, the detective’s mobile was out of reach for a week on end. It made the Inspector feel like a complete idiot. He couldn’t even find Sherlock. His landlord, as expected, didn’t have the slightest idea as to where his tenant could be, his friends didn’t exist as such, and to his brother Sherlock would go last of all. Besides, he seemed to have recently mentioned that Mycroft was on a long business trip.

 

If Lestrade was superstitious, he would’ve surely presumed that Sherlock repeated the fate of the other victims. But it didn’t sit well with him how Sherlock could just evaporate for no reason without a trace.

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

“Come in!” the Inspector shouted.

 

Sally stepped into the office, a broad smile radiating on her lips.

 

“You wouldn’t guess what this Edison woman just told me.”

 

“Going by your expression, something extremely amusing. Wouldn’t be bad if people came to us just to share funny stories.”

 

Donovan settled on the visitors’ chair.

 

“She’s from the society for the protection of monuments or something of the sort. She thinks there’s a conspiracy aimed at destroying all London’s historical buildings.”

 

Lestrade sighed.

 

“Why not simply blow up the Parliament?”

 

“Just hold on a moment before you laugh. She says she has proof of that. Remember when Old Bailey was shaken and a whole layer of plaster came off the ceiling right during the meeting?”

“Yes, Dimmock already told me. He was there at the moment.”

 

“Well then, she says that something similar happened in St Paul’s, too. Although, not the plaster this time, but something crumbled in subsidiary rooms, and all over the edifice.”

 

“What do we have to do with it?”

 

“She says there were no reasons for the crumbling. St Paul’s Cathedral is always in the best fettle, they have their own maintenance squad. Old Bailey had been recently restored, so any natural damage is out of question. It seems like there’s someone behind it.”

 

The Inspector sighed again and carded a nervous hand through his hair.

 

“Have they all gone mad? What does she want from us? To catch the offenders who climbed up the ceiling and peeled off the plaster?”

 

“Well, she does think it’s a world-wide conspiracy, as I said.”

 

“Oh, yes. Right. Where would we be without it?”

 

“You may laugh, Inspector, but she threatened to go to The Mirror and to The Daily News if we don’t act on it. You remember those blokes from The Mirror, right? They still haven’t forgiven us for those disappearances. They released a new article just yesterday. Again about the police sitting on their hands.”

 

“Oh God… Well, send someone over there. Let them take a look at those crumblings and at this plaster. Talk to the restorers, perhaps. Well, you know what to do.”

 

“Yes, Inspector.”

 

Lestrade sighed and dialed Sherlock’s number again. What has become of Sherlock at such an important moment?

 

 _‘Another two weeks, and I’m filing a disappearance report,’_ he decided, a gloomy expression on his face.

 

\- 0 -

 

Sherlock was woken up by the thunderous doorbell ring. He could swear the bell never bellowed so obstreperously and irritatingly. The detective tried to scramble out of his bed, but the endeavour wasn’t crowned with success. He got lost in his coat and collapsed on the floor as though he was shot.

 

The last memory he had was of the meeting next to the Aquarium. His head was thrumming so hard as if an affiliated branch of Big Ben was opened right in the core of it. Sherlock recognised the feeling. Back in the day, he experienced something similar after his juvenile experiments with his own alcohol tolerance. Actually, it was thanks to that particular feeling that he had to discontinue these exact experiments. His mouth was dry and his body ached after the night spent on the couch while fully clothed. Sherlock had no idea what could’ve possibly made him leave his coat and his shoes on before going to sleep.

 

Was Derek Render in fact so insolent as to inject him with an experimental drug? Or did Sherlock himself cave in and decided to remember the old times? No, that would’ve been screamingly idiotic, he’d never do that. Although, he’d never sleep in his shoes either.

 

The bell kept on wildly ringing. Holmes got on his feet. On his journey towards the stairs he tried to correlate his current condition with something known. A dull pain throbbed in the occipital part of his head. His pupils responded strongly to the light stimulus. He had a dry mouth and problems with coordination. Partial amnesia, too. Perfect.

 

By some miracle, he made it down the stairs and opened the door.

 

“Sherlock,” Lestrade’s eyes widened in astonishment. “Have you been drinking?”

 

“Does it look like I have?” inquired Holmes, a frown creasing his forehead.

 

“Honestly? Very much so. Only without the breath.” The Inspector squeezed past the detective and into the hall, shutting the door behind his back. “Where have you been for the past two weeks?”

 

Holmes blinked and stared at the police officer. Lestrade looked frazzled. Just frazzled. Sherlock’s brain flat-out refused to make deductions regarding the reasons for such weariness. New clues for the case? Was that why he came? Why did he mention two weeks then? Thoughts moved unusually slow, as though forcing their flow through the jelly. He didn’t feel like talking.

 

“Lestrade, I have no time to deal with your problems right now. You can see for yourself that I’ve had a rather hard night. Thank you for your caring. Goodbye.”

 

“Sherlock, are you insane?” the Inspector asked, sympathetically. “You have been absent for a fortnight! You could’ve at least turned your phone on! I started thinking you’ve added yourself to the victim list.”

 

“Well, now you see that I haven’t. Go away, I need to work.”

 

“Sherlock, do you even hear me? Have you even seen yourself? What ‘work’? I’m not going anywhere until you explain to me where you’ve been during those fourteen days.”

 

The Inspector’s voice echoed painfully in his head. Sherlock was physically incapable of listening to that rubbish.

 

“Inspector, I think you’re not feeling well…”

 

Without further ado, Lestrade pulled out his mobile and demonstrated the current date on the screen.

 

“Two. Weeks. Sherlock…” He narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “Have you visited your former friends, by any chance? Do you remember our pact? I’m not working with a junkie.”

 

“For god’s sake, Lestrade!” Sherlock wrapped himself in his coat a bit tighter; he felt chilly for some reason. “Here, let me get you my blood for the test. You can take it to the laboratory right away. Will you just go? I’ve been clean for a few years, and you’re perfectly aware of it.” Sherlock was also perfectly aware that Lestrade wasn’t going to demand his blood sample. In his state he could promise just about anything to get Lestrade to leave him alone.

 

“What’s with the ring?” the Inspector asked, slightly abated, as he pointed to Holmes’ right hand. “Are you going to tell me you don’t know?”

 

With a perplexed look on his face, Sherlock stared at the ring made of black stone with an intricate monogram that encircled his fourth finger. Apparently, Sherlock’s expression convinced Lestrade that he wasn’t going to be granted with an answer. The Inspector let out a sigh.

 

“Look, you’re free to do what you like and so on, but will you at least call the next time you’re going to run off like that? I had to inform your landlord and ask him to let me know as soon as you come back.”

 

“Oh, splendid,” said Sherlock, gloomily. “I do hope my photos are not adorning the lamp posts and milk cartons just yet?”

 

“No, but I’ll bear that in mind for the next time, thank you,” Lestrade retorted. “Go take a hangover pill or something and don’t hobnob with bad boys and girls anymore. Do download a pinch of responsibility from the internet as well, will you?”

 

“Will that be all? Are you done with the speech? Then, perhaps, I’ll get back to my business, and I think you’re expected in Scotland Yard. Anderson must have a lot of new funny stories.”

 

Lestrade huffed out a scoff and made for the door; if Sherlock was talking back so eagerly, it meant he was doing just fine.

 

Holmes trudged up the stairs, shrugging out of his coat on the way, swerved into the bathroom, unscrewed the tap and stowed his head under the cold gush of water. Thoughts cleared just the tiniest bit. He plodded into his bedroom to change… and nearly missed the bed as he attempted to fall on it. Memories of the last hours engulfed him like a powerful wave.

 

First Sherlock slumped down on the bed, then got up again and began pacing around the room. He pounded back to the living room, scooted up his coat off the floor and fished his mobile out of its pocket. The phone blinked and switched on immediately. Sherlock gawped at the date. If before this moment he could’ve chalked it all up to Lestrade’s cretinous attempts to teach him a lesson by means of ‘shock therapy’, now it became undeniably obvious. Two weeks had passed. Fourteen days had gone by and Sherlock recalled only one of them.

 

He flopped down on the couch and rubbed his temples. Even if he could accept it as an axiom that he was in fact in that Non London place, his predicament wouldn’t get any more fathomable. Sherlock’s inner clock never malfunctioned; he had spent two hours there at the most. Well, he could easily check it.

 

The detective approached the mirror and closely examined his face, his palms, clothes, and carved a hand through his hair. Suppose they could’ve shaved and washed him, but his hair definitely remained the same length it was. And Sherlock’s hair always grew very fast. His fingernails were also alright, they weren’t cut which meant they had never grown in the first place. A hardly noticeable scratch that he had acquired during one of his experiments two days ago also remained just as it was supposed to be on the second day.

 

Sherlock trusted his observations. But he trusted the calendar no less.

 

The last thing he had any recollection of was a whizz of the cane and Dick Whittington’s apologetic face.

 

The detective froze. All the information he had collected during the last twenty four hours required urgent classification. Back at the moment he postponed the analysis due to the unprecedented circumstances, but right now he had no reason to put it off any further. Delay was fraught with serious consequences.

 

Holmes couldn’t imagine how other people managed without filtering the oncoming information, without thinking it over, without distributing it. It was no surprise they couldn’t put the simplest things together.

 

To analyse. Urgently. Right now.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes shut and opened them already in his MindPalace. The room changed drastically; bookcases were trembling, paper was falling off the shelves, things were chaotically moving on the floor, hindering each other and rolling up to Sherlock’s feet. This space always sensitively reacted to its owner’s emotional state, and right now it left a lot to be desired.

 

Sherlock half-closed his eyes again, concentrated and waved his hand in the air. The noise moderated. The room restored to its usual mode; a few book pages lay strewn across the floor, but Sherlock dismissed them for the time being.

 

Right. New data.

 

Under Sherlock’s fixed stare, a new box with folders popped up out of nowhere and landed on the floor, a scrap of paper with ‘Non London’ pinned across it. Holmes lowered himself next to it, concentrated and set to diligently dredge up the details of his recent journey. The mist, the streetlights, Dick Whittington, the skull named Henry, the cat named Margaret, vast canvases on Piccadilly; everything ended up inside the box in an orderly and neat fashion. Separately, a sticker with the mark ‘Important’ was floating in the air: instructions for his subsequent travels to Non London. The time conundrum and his partial amnesia were also placed into the same box.

 

With a waving of his hand, Sherlock made another folder fly off the shelves; it contained the records on all the disappearances. Sherlock quickly performed necessary correlations and thought of a solution. He developed a working hypothesis with seventy-five percent accuracy. All of the victims ended up in the same city and, quite possibly, got attacked by dangerous creatures. They spent there an indefinite amount of time, varying from a few minutes to a few hours. They were consequently delivered back to London, deeply disturbed, and their hysteria, psychotic breakdowns and partial amnesia were the ramifications of those strong emotions they experienced. A footnote: Sherlock, on his part, didn’t see any buses at the time of his displacement. This fact was yet to be clarified later.

 

After cataloguing his memories and collected data, Holmes felt much better. He could set about gathering new information. He closed his eyes again and opened them already in his own living room. Only an hour and a half had passed. He half wondered to what he owed the increased efficiency. Perhaps, he somehow benefitted from the shake-up he had undergone.

 

Sherlock went to the kitchen, brewed himself a cup of coffee and traipsed to his laptop. Now, he needed to look for the hits and information on similar cases. If this city existed and it was possible to get there, it meant he could discover evidence of that. Everything left it trace on the web. He took a swallow of his coffee and plunged himself into the research.

 

A half an hour later Sherlock littered his hard drive with dozens of narratives about city legends and visited dozens of websites dedicated to paranormal phenomena. He didn’t find there anything particularly interesting. Just a few rather primitive stories about UFO abductions or about vampires in HighgateCemetery. These sites’ frequenters enjoyed the witnesses’ stories per se without taking the trouble to check their veracity. He also found a few notes about travels into so-called parallel universes and decided not to delete them. For the most part, because of the descriptions pertinent to the time difference in his reality and the parallel one.

 

 Dick Whittington was found in no time; it was not for nothing that his name sounded vaguely familiar to Sherlock. He dug out a famous fairy tale about the first Lord Mayor of London and his cat in three versions. It appeared to be quite popular and served as a basis for several musical performances.

 

The only mention of ‘another’ London was found in the book called ‘Neverland’ written by Neil Gaiman. Sherlock familiarised himself with the brief summary, skimmed over the pages and concluded that it wasn’t of much help to him. It didn’t contain anything substantial and getting in touch with the author seemed like a long and barely useful perspective.

 

Nothing concrete.

 

After a few minutes of speculation Sherlock resolutely got up from the desk and headed for his bedroom to change.

 

He decided to do it experimentally. The taxi ride wouldn’t take a lot of time and would either allow him to continue his investigations or eventually reject this path. It was a reasonable and logical inference. Everything needs checking. Besides, since he found himself in a situation where his faith in science was tested by something impossible… Well then, impossible hypotheses required checking even more so.

 

Just in case Sherlock sent a text to Lestrade indicating that on account of his current investigation he was going to Sussex for a few days. The Inspector’s ridiculous concern could only impede the process.

 

Sherlock recovered his pistol to bring it with (SIG Sauer of excellent quality, although unregistered), a spare magazine, a magnifier, and fifty quid. He shrugged into his coat, wrapped a scarf around his neck and quietly shut the door behind him.

 

“Taxi!”

 

\- 0 -

 

“Stop next to that streetlight.”

 

The London cabbie, accustomed to practically any kind of requests, didn’t display any surprise. There was a round streetlight that winked a friendly eye at the next intersection, and the cab halted right there. Sherlock glanced out the window, smirked at his own thoughts and, all of a sudden, turned to the driver:

 

“What do you see outside?”

 

The cabbie shrugged and muttered:

 

“A street.”

 

Sherlock paid the charge and swung open the door. Even from the depth of the car he could see that there wasn’t any street outside. A viscous darkness crept along the road. Holmes took a few tentative steps ahead and glimpsed back over his shoulder. The taxi didn’t pull away, but simply dissolved in the dense obscurity.

Sherlock took a few strides into the absolute nothing, and just like that, without any transitions, Non London presented itself before his eyes in all its glory. Sherlock involuntarily exhaled; the city actually existed. There wasn’t a riot of blindingly garish colours like there was last time with Dick Whittington, just as there weren’t any of the dim shadows that had confused him in his first visit. He found himself in Covent Garden, right in front of the Opera House. Only the building looked different from the one in his reality. A forest of organ pipes jutted from the rooftop; enormous music sheets of scores looked at him from the walls among which Sherlock recognised ‘[Ode for the Birthday of Queen Anne](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ode_for_the_Birthday_of_Queen_Anne)’ by Handel. The façade was adorned with all kinds of decorations: painted folding screens from Turandot, masks, curtains, costume elements and sundry musical instruments; a tomb from Verdi’s Don Carlos was hanging off the chains. The Opera House reminded more of a coloured box which someone tried to stuff with a myriad of different things.

 

It looked odd, even by Sherlock’s standards. He glanced at the music book of gigantic dimensions that was partly sticking off the rooftop and at the varicoloured feathers that framed the second storey window panes. Definitely odd. A disgusting droning started to build up in his head, the one he had heard by the fountain on Piccadilly, but the detective concentrated on maintaining the feeling of reality. Even though it was a foreign one, a mind-boggling reality.

 

Sherlock never took much interest in any kinds of spiritual practices based on autosuggestion, but right now he needed to force himself to cling to this world, even though he very well noticed its obvious phantasmagoria and lack of logic. He needed to accept the fact that the city was real and go from there.

 

For the last time, Sherlock looked at the Opera House and then headed in the direction where in his usual Covent Garden there was the Market, just to avoid remaining on the same spot; lingering in one place suddenly seemed unsafe. His own rationality was playing a bad trick on him. As soon as he tried to put some logic into the matter, its absence momentarily crawled at the forefront of his mind and wouldn’t let him concentrate. 

 

The city was neither a delusion nor a dream. If in Holborn he could still believe in the reality of all that was happening, here it was proving rather difficult. Non London literally proclaimed its undeniable existence, giving off noises and scents, a hubbub of voices, gusts of wind and one hundred percent real flagstones under his feet. 

 

As he turned behind the corner, he saw what seemed to be the Market in this, the other London. A spontaneous trade bloomed right from where he stood: someone was squatting on the ground in front of a layout of goods; a few tradesmen drove up their own shops on wheels; and a little further away tents shone with their lustrous silk fabrics. However, the seemingly endless maelstrom of people that passed them by was rushing towards the massive gates. Behind them, a membrane was gleaming which resembled the one that surrounded Piccadilly. Here, though, it incessantly changed its colours and rippled when people traversed it.

 

“Hey, you, haven’t you forgotten something?”

 

It was the skull again, a friendly grin pinned to its teeth. It lay right next to Sherlock’s feet. The detective was certain that just a minute ago it wasn’t even there.

 

“I came to meet you, but you had already scampered towards the Market. Fast, aren’t you?” the skull grumbled, a slight disapproval lacing its voice. “Surely, you’re protected by Lord Mayor, but you still wouldn’t want to wander off without a guide; you don’t know the local habits. Curiosity is all you have, while your skills are that of a newborn baby. I wouldn’t usually volunteer to deal with you, but you’d be lost otherwise. A pity, that would be. Everything you know will only hinder you; you better bear that in mind. Your daylight rules don’t apply here.”

 

Holmes leaned to pick up the skull and tucked it under his arm to make it more convenient for carrying.

 

“What’s in there?” the detective gesticulated towards the gates.

 

“The Market, I’ve just told you,” the skull responded. “Just so you know, I have a name. Slipped your mind already?”

 

“Henry,” said Sherlock, remembering. A buzzing in his cranium that was about to rear up its ugly head began to abate. Thoughts started forming into logical connections, finally ceasing their impetuous leaps.

 

“Feel better?” asked Henry. “It’s because I’m local, and you’re not. You’ll always feel better when I’m around.”

 

The gates that engulfed a motley torrent of people attracted Sherlock’s gaze, enticingly. Never before that moment did he show any interest in sightseeing, but right now he experienced the strongest curiosity that was drawing him towards it. To see the Market with his own eyes, to take a proper look at the citizens, at the goods, to make sure, to feel it with his own fingers… He made a decisive step forwards.

 

“Hey, you weren’t invited here for shopping, as a matter of fact!” Henry exclaimed. Then he relented almost at once. “Although, if the Market is calling out to you, then there’s no resisting. Alright, let us go take a stroll around. You’ll get a little accustomed to the way things are in here.”

 

“I’m being called towards it?” inquired Sherlock who was still eager to catch a glimpse of what was behind the gates.

 

“This is the Market. Sometimes it enchants the customers, although usually they go there out of their own volition. But you’re new to all this, so everything is possible. And so it tries. It’s not dangerous, but hard to resist. Let us go, there’s nothing to be afraid of if we just ramble about a little. But don’t even think about eating or drinking anything.”

 

“Why?” Sherlock asked, alerted at once.

 

“Haven’t you heard about fairies?” the skull’s voice rang with surprise.

 

“About who?”

 

“Oh, boy. They’re creatures, well, mythical ones. They’re very tiny, with little wings, and they play mischievous tricks and enchant people. You can’t eat or drink anything when you’re their guest, otherwise you can stay there forever and never find a way back. It’s the same in Non London.”

 

Sherlock glanced around. There was a crystal clear, vigorous singing coming from the Opera House. Life was in full swing, throbbing like an artery. It was the life he had no understanding of, which had its own laws and rules, its own magnificent possibilities and accumulated lore, knowledge no one else was in possession of.

 

“What if I want to stay?” he asked, suddenly.

 

“Well, then you’ll just stay. Why tempt fate?” The skull looked like it could’ve shrugged its shoulders if only it had had them. “Who knows where you might end up after eating our food? It is, just so you know, quite unpredictable. You may eat an offered loaf of bread and automatically sign the contract for eternal servitude.”

 

Sherlock scoffed and walked further to the Market. They mingled with the crowd which carried them through the wide open gates.

 

The Circus and the Opera House evaporated without a trace. Mist raised wreaths of smoke in the darkness.

 

“The Market is infinite,” the skull said in a didactic tone. “You can enter only through the northern gates and exit only through the southern. If you go in any other direction, you’ll wind up wandering off forever until you come upon a sentinel or end up on the Black Market.”

 

“You mean you have it, too, the Black Market? Clandestine trading along with legal one? Very functional.”

 

“Everyone has it. Only ours is… well, it’s actually black. One doesn’t go there until absolutely has to. Get moving, will you?” Henry urged him.

 

Sherlock realised he had been standing stock-still, gazing at the passers-by with undisguised excitement. The calling of this place together with the feeling of deeply otherworld unreality mixed and created a particularly special sense of euphoria which he had never experienced before, even when he was on drugs. To mar the sensation was only the fact that Sherlock could say nothing about the visitors of the Market. Of course, he observed and picked up on all the details: of what the mantles were sewn, what form and size their shoes were and what prints they were supposed to leave on the ground; he saw hands and faces, sleeves and collars of soiled shirts, but it didn’t tell him a thing. Everything was different here, and callosities on the fingers and smudges on the clothes could be indicative of something entirely else than they were in his own London. It was unusual and slightly scary. It was new and delightful, and absolutely fascinating.

 

They proceeded further along the aisles while Sherlock absorbed the new world. It poured into him like a mountain brook, and Sherlock felt that nothing could exist there that could possibly be boring. Another system structure, different logic of events. How… fascinating.

 

Counters swarmed with peculiar and quaint things. They offered ordinary things too, like jewelry, napkins, coasters, kitchenware and wooden stools. But most of the goods the detective had never seen in his entire life. Fanciful musical instruments, barrels that emitted champing sounds, boxes full of impossible trinkets, six-pawed and winged animals, a whole row of variegated shimmering rosaries with nuns sitting next to the counters; books that could open out of their own accord and rustle their pages. Shouting and calling of tradesmen reached them from all sides. To see, to touch, to taste.

 

“What kind of money do you use?” Sherlock asked, stopping by the gunsmith to get a better look. The shop smelt of oil and powder, with a clanking of sledge-hammers against the anvil. Right behind the counters, in mobile workshops, weapons were being forged and casted in a mould for sale.

 

“Depends what you wish to buy. And from whom,” the skull added. “Citizen usually barter, since money is a very changeable currency. Today you stumble upon a goldmine and tomorrow only a twopence. You never know. But at least everyone has something to offer in exchange.”

 

“Stumble upon?”

 

“Well, yes. We don’t have a mint place here. So we have to make do with what we have. Besides, people lose money everywhere. Very handy. Do you know how much money gets lost daily in London? Thousands of pounds, and not only pounds.”

 

“What’s the exchange rate then?”

 

“The exchange rate?” the skull surprised. “What are you on about?”

 

“What am I on about?” It was Sherlock’s turn to be puzzled. “A dollar and a pound have different value on the market. Or a pound and, say, a yen. A dollar and a yen are cheaper, while a pound has a higher value. They have different purchasing capacity.” Sherlock felt a little stupid while stating the obvious facts.

 

“Yes, right,” Henry’s tone dripped with barely veiled glee. “I have forgotten how ridiculous things are over there. It’s much simpler here. We have old money and new money. New money, which is modern, is cheaper; it gets lost every day by millions. Whereas, Elizabethan, for instance, is much more precious. If you find a Chinese coin of the Han Dynasty, you can buy yourself a palace right next to the RoyalGarden.”

 

“Chinese, you were saying?” Sherlock’s eyes thoughtfully followed a woman who moved around the Market in a purple palanquin, escorted by four carriers and a bizarre-looking bird. “It means there are other cities apart from Non London?”

 

“Naturally, what did you think?” Henry made a dismissive little noise. “You thought we were the only ones? Oh, boy, aren’t you funny? Any respectable capital has its own night version! What did you expect? You think cities are able to manage themselves with only one rationality? Without the other side they would have been long gone. Hey!” The skull suddenly interrupted itself. “Why did you stop again? You’re not allowed to spend here a lot of time, so come on, let’s get this over with. Satisfy your curiosity and let’s get down to business.”

 

Sherlock glanced around to choose a direction, searching for the most interesting aisle, when his eyes landed on the shop a bit in the distance. It was partially covered with shadows so that from where he stood it proved impossible to see what it offered. There were no customers next to it. People resolutely gave Sherlock a wide berth, passing him by at as broad a circle as they could manage. They looked askance at him and whispered between each other. In the midst of the crowded Market where everyone had to elbow their way through everyone else in order to simply look at the goods, it seemed odd. Without further premeditation, Holmes headed straight over there.

 

“Hey, hey!” the skull called him nervously at once. “Where do you think you’re going? Stop right here! They’re the watchmakers, Sherlock, are you insane?”

 

“Watchmakers?” the detective echoed, not lessening his pace.

 

“Exactly!” the skull all but bellowed. “It’s dangerous! Do you hear me, you lunatic? Wait!”

 

Sherlock wasn’t listening; he was drawn towards the counter as though he was a magnet. He felt that he absolutely needed to know what was there. It suddenly seemed to him very important to know. Very important to know.

 

Having approached it at a close angle, he froze. In front of him stood a covered wagon, lacking its wheels and full of various mechanisms. Clocks, metronomes, intricate systems of optical lenses, clockwise toys, small robots in forms of insects and birds, dogs and cats, even lizards. There were tall statues with unmoving, as though carved from wood, faces. All of it buzzed, screeched, clicked and moved their limbs… Sherlock had never seen anything as beautiful as that, that kind of precision and that kind of accuracy. Those devices were perfect. Smooth movements, every detail in its proper place; the slightest oscillations of springs were visible, the slightest vibrations of gears between parts of the metallic cases. They were almost living, in their own odd and mechanical sense. The detective couldn’t tear his eyes from the counter. The skull fidgeted in his hands, but he utterly forgot about it.

 

“Oh, I see that Sir is a fine connoisseur?” a voice appeared from his side, measured and calculated. “Sir is a man of taste.”

 

Sherlock turned around. Next to him, it seemed, stood the seller. He was a tall man, wrapped in a rust-coloured cassock. The detective momentarily felt that practically anything can be hidden under such clothes. Just about anything. There was a soft laugh, and sleeves released quite human hands that promptly locked. Sherlock cast a quick glance at them. Ordinary hands, only too scrawny. The monk had very long and very slender fingers which slightly resembled spider’s legs.

 

“It’s the watchmaker in person!” the skull desperately hissed from under Holmes’ arm. “Oh, you’re such an idiot! Get out of here before it’s too late!”

 

Sherlock didn’t pay him any mind.

 

“Yes,” he said, facing the monk. “A connoisseur.”

 

“It shows,” the monk smirked and added, quite vaguely, “Similar attracts similar. Would you wish to buy anything?”

 

“I’d like to take a good look first,” answered Holmes. “May I touch these mechanisms?”

 

“Of course,” the monk’s voice was full of laughter. “Feel yourself at ease. For you I’m ready to make an exception.” He waved his hand and gestured Sherlock to enter inside the wagon and examine it. “Please.”

 

Sherlock followed inside, trying to divert his attention from how strongly the skull started vibrating in his hands.

 

The devices were unimaginably beautiful. The interior of the wagon offered a much greater choice than the outside part, and among the incredible cornucopia of gadgets and contraptions Sherlock found all the more of those which destination he could neither guess nor even fancy.

 

The monk stood behind his back, intent on making Sherlock’s contemplation as comfortable as possible, while his voice kept producing descriptions and particularities of the most noteworthy specimens. His voice resembled the ticking of a metronome. Of a clock, of a countdown. Of everything at the same time. A moment later Sherlock realised he couldn’t make out a single word of what his opponent was saying.

 

Tick-tack-tick-tack. Tick-tick-tack.

 

Sherlock pulled himself together and tried to concentrate. His head was filled with that nasty buzzing again, but he knew for certain he was missing something. Panicked, he moved his eyes frantically around the counters. There was something in those mechanisms, something that had seemed wrong from the very first minute, unfamiliar, but as soon as he managed to concentrate on it, his thought would escape and he could not fully grasp it.

 

He jerked his head from side to side, restoring the usual flow of thoughts and trying to get rid of the monk’s monotonous and obtrusive voice. He turned around, and his breath caught in his throat. His eyes became clear again, and with frightening clearness he finally saw what he had missed in the beginning.

 

The mechanisms were _alive_. In a tiny bird’s chest its minute heart was fluttering, cogwheels soldered in its system; a microscope’s ocular was rhythmically contracting; a flying airship was enmeshed in a net of blood vessels. From inside a metallic dog, on Sherlock’s right, real human eyes looked out, and they held nothing but pain.

 

Slowly, Sherlock turned to face the monk, and it was the last thing he could do on his own.

 

“Oh, I see that you finally noticed,” the latter said. “You’re indeed, capable. Usually no one sees. Everyone knows, but no one notices.”

 

“You use body parts for your designs?” Sherlock exhaled.

 

“Yes. We’re the experts; we can use any material. In order to actually animate the metal we ought to use only what was animate before.”

 

The wagon and its contents faded away to the background and then slowly dissolved, leaving only the darkness and the monk whose garments and snow-white wrists looked unusually bright against the canvas of the night, nearly stinging Sherlock’s eyes. Holmes couldn’t move any of his limbs; his body ceased to be his subject, and only his breathing was left under his conscious control. He found it hard to even speak.

 

“Why… do you… need me?” he got out.

 

The monk smirked. The outlines of houses started to come into sight behind his shoulders, gradually forming into a strange and deformed street. Every building there had its own wild and irregular frame, houses looked crooked at impossible angles; they were distorting and seemed to devour themselves of their own accord.

 

“We see the essence,” the monk said. “We understand where each detail goes, and you are already perfect. You are impeccable, as though you had been already assembled. But we’re going to rebuild you, make you even better. The brain that functions without intermissions; the body that is fully governed by the head… Oh, you will give life to hundreds of creations! But don’t be preoccupied; you will be magnificent, you’ll recognise the perfection,” the monk smirked again. “You are a connoisseur, you said so yourself.”

 

Perhaps for the first time in his life, Sherlock felt scared. He had lost count of how many times he had been at gunpoint, of how many times he had been on the very edge, and time and again he had driven himself there of his own will. But for the first time, he realised there could be something even worse than usual, ordinary death.

 

Those eyes… They saw. Those hearts pounded. Those muscles contracted. Those vessels carried blood. Not a single component lost its life, and yet they were separated from where they had come from.

 

He forced his eyes to look down at the skull that was still tucked under his arm, hoping that Henry would say something, would help him get out of there, but the skull remained silent; it became a dead, empty bone. 

 

The street acquired absolute distinctness as it gradually filled with other monks. Their faces were concealed with hoods, but their cassocks were black this time. They emerged out of the shadows and disappeared just as fast, so fast that Sherlock couldn’t even approximately establish their number. His recent interlocutor unhurriedly went forwards, and Sherlock realised that his own feet followed him, as if propelled by a silent order. The other monks that stepped out of the darkness were escorting them in a taciturn manner, only the rustling of their clothes audible in the stillness of the night.

 

With all his might, the detective stared at the houses that flowed him by, attempting to register every minute detail. Two times he tripped over the roots that kept spurting under his feet out of nowhere, although he was certain that the soil he stepped upon had been completely smooth just a moment ago.

 

All of a sudden, a detail clicked back into place in his head. Crooked houses, roots, and an earth road… Ruth had told him about this place. Thirteen Street. That was it! Only the information was absolutely of no help to him. Of no help at all. Sherlock grimaced in his mind. Perfect.

 

“Why… thirteen?”

 

“Oh,” the monk looked over his shoulder. “Haven’t you guessed? The Thirteenth Hour. We’re the watchmakers, and time that passes here doesn’t exist. Our time.”

 

Holmes decided not to ask any more questions. It felt impossibly hard to get a word out of his mouth, and his forehead was already beaded with sweat. He moved his legs, obeying to someone else’s will, and a feeling of utter horror gnawed at the pit of his stomach. Where was his praised intelligence? Where were his reflexes and shooting skills? He couldn’t even reach for his gun, even though it lay just in the pocket of his coat, inches away. Where was all of it? For the first time, Sherlock felt all-consuming helplessness. Not a single plan that he had come up with on his way to wherever they were going could work. His habitual logic didn’t apply there, and neither did the laws of physics or matter. How could he possibly calculate anything in such a place? How could he do anything if his own body wouldn’t respond to his will? He was being led further and further away, and he hadn’t the slightest idea what they were planning to do with him.

 

At length, the procession stopped next to an enormous building that had gigantic roots braided all over its surface. Sherlock couldn’t tell how high that building was, for the roots became undistinguishable in the mist already from the second floor up.

 

A vast hall presented itself behind the doors, lit with a plethora of candles. A winding staircase stretched under his feet.

 

They ascended and ascended, fast and inexorable, five minutes, twenty minutes, and there was no end of it. The detective wondered if his endurance would hold up; he felt a stitch in his side and his legs ached with exhaustion. In order to somehow distract himself, Sherlock started to count the stairs. Three hundred, three hundred and fifty, four hundred and twenty… Watchmakers, the tower… He breathed in abruptly. In the whole city of London, no, in both cities of London there was only one place of similar height. Everything added up to the Big Ben. Where else could those watchmakers live, if not there?

 

His conjecture proved right as soon as they made it to the last floor, into the roomy hall where cogwheels of the gigantic clock mechanism rolled. The broad waist of the bell was visible higher up in the darkness.

 

Sherlock was left standing at the very centre, under the eyes of a few dozens of watchmakers who worked there, but now stopped to examine him from head to foot. The monk in the rust-coloured cassock had vanished without a trace.

 

Holmes heard the ticking of the other monks’ voices.

 

“Where did they find him?”

 

“Just look at him!”

 

“Perfect!”

 

He watched many of them lay aside their instruments and body parts they had held in their hands so that they could come and look at him closer, but not close enough to let him make out anything apart from rippling fabric. All the watchmakers were completely the same, even by height. They didn’t exhibit anything individual, and their measured, monotonous voices only underlined the striking resemblance. 

 

“Big Ben is not here at the moment,” came a voice behind the detective’s back. “But he should approve. This is an exquisite material, not some commonplace rubbish.”

 

As though obeying to an invisible sign, the monks surrounded him, took the skull out of his unmoving hands and led him towards one of the vacant tables that was lit with a bright, incandescent light source.

 

“What—” Sherlock barely managed. He wanted to protest to being touched by foreign hands, but he couldn’t move for the life of him. His gut feeling was practically screaming at the thought of what was going to come, and for the first time it was intuition for that feeling to take over his logical deductions. His mind refused to accept such possibilities, throwing them away as unreal, as too dreadful.

 

A multitude of hands pulled off first his coat, then his shirt, and finally everything else. The same hands laid him onto the table, straightened his limbs and fixated his head. Meanwhile, the voice of the chief monk was serenely explaining:

 

“You don’t need to be scared, you won’t feel any pain. You will simply become useful. You want to be ideally functional, don’t you? What use is there of such an excellent, yet fragile mechanism like you? In fifty years you’ll wither away, you’ll disintegrate, and what then? Such beauty ought to be immortalised. You are a stranger, from the daylight city; you’re permitted so little time there, whereas here we govern it. We can make time eternal for you. Don’t your people dream about it in the daylight world? We’re the watchmakers. We can forge any kind of watch. Watches which count the time before your death, and watches that count the minutes of your happiness; watches which can stop everything and which can start any heart, even those made of stone. We’re the experts.”

 

His voice rang and rang, and Sherlock heard only the dead ticking.

 

Meanwhile, one of the watchmakers came up to him and, using his pathologically long and thin fingers, diligently detached Sherlock’s right hand off his body.

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened; it was the extent of how he could react. There was no pain, indeed, only the odd sensation as though someone separated one of his components. There came also the frightful realisation that he still could feel his hand; and he could feel the ice-cold fingers on his wrist and his elbow, and he could feel his hand being transported and delivered onto the adjacent table.

 

Absurdity. Sheer absurdity. He was lying naked in Non London, lying inside Big Ben, with his body on one table and his separated hand on the other, with no blood coming from his…wound.

 

Ordinary people have a universal method of escape if subjected to unbearable stress; their brain would simply block the dangerous information, but Sherlock had no such deliverance. He wouldn’t be able neither to forget nor to delete. That thing there – he simply wouldn’t be able to- and judging by the looks of things, he would have a whole eternity to remember.  

 

“If only you knew with what rubbish we have to work sometimes… Dregs, simply dregs. It’s very difficult to find parts of decent quality these times.”

 

In rapid succession, his arms and then his legs were diligently detached from his body and into smaller parts: feet, wrists, upper arms, thighs, calves, shoulders: to be organised in a pedantic order. Then, something terrible happened. The monk who hovered above him thrust his hands deep into his neck and separated Sherlock’s head from the remains of his body. Carefully holding it between his palms, he placed it onto another table, securing it with special fastenings. From over there, Sherlock could see his own dismounted body which, without his limbs, looked like a trivial piece of meat, ready to be skinned.

 

And he felt everything. He was lying on the table, he was hanging on the hooks; he felt his ankle muscles contract and was aware of each one of his fingers. All at once. All on different surfaces and points of space.

 

He thought he was going insane.

 

“Perfect, perfect… What a beauty.”

 

The chief monk approached his helpless head and laid out the instruments. Sherlock realised what was going to happen next. How did they put it; everything had to be functional? That meant _every_ part. He didn’t know if he should close his eyes, or rather watch and remember. Because it was _him_. Because it could not possibly be happening.

 

Metal fastenings were abrading his temples. His hands and legs were warming up under the lamplight. The wind that seemed to come out of nowhere ruffled his hair but wasn’t even touching the watchmakers’ robes.

 

The monk raised the scalpel.

 

Sherlock closed his eyes. No.

 

“No.”

 

A thunderous voice that sounded like a bell toll roared deafeningly and resounded in the air.

 

The watchmaker shuddered and turned.

 

“But… Master Ben. For once we have something perfect. His heart could adorn your biggest clock!”

 

“No,” repeated the voice, firmly.

 

A new silhouette appeared out of the shadows. Big Ben was in fact quite big, three times taller and massive than any of the watchmakers. He looked like a mountain, even though he moved lightly.

 

Big Ben slowly stepped up to Sherlock’s head, leaned forward, and examined him. He slid his finger over the outlines of Sherlock’s face.

 

“Just look at him. He is perfect; he functions excellently as he is. He is efficient. Why did no one call me? Assemble him back. Living must stay living. Can’t you recognise something that already works?” Ben’s voice sounded sharp and painful inside Sherlock’s head.

 

“But, Master…” the monk tried to object.

 

“I. Said. No.” Ben ordered. “Assemble him back at once. You could only break him, for here everything’s already right. Have you completely lost your sight?”

 

The watchmaker didn’t dare contradict him. He bowed his head low, for a moment exposing his white skin through the holes of his sleeves, and gestured for others to come up and help him. A few minutes later, which seemed like a century to Sherlock, the detective stood by the table, naked and shivering, with his clothes clasped in his hands. He was in one piece and unharmed; fully restored and, much to his chagrin, with his legs barely holding him upright.

 

The moment he finished putting his clothes back on, Big Ben slid back from behind the gigantic cogwheels of the clock mechanism, Henry the skull in his hands.

 

“We greatly apologise,” his voice roared. “Even the best ones sometimes lack the understanding not to try to improve on perfection. There is inherent beauty in perishability.”

 

His hands trembling, Sherlock buttoned his coat. After having lost full control over his body, it was very odd to steer it on his own again. However, his hands weren’t obeying him properly and felt like someone else’s.

 

“Explain yourself,” Sherlock demanded. “What is this nonsense about me being a mechanism?”

 

Ben made a dismissive noise, and its short and precise sound scared off a bat above their heads.

 

“You think you’re not? Look at yourself, boy. You think like a mechanism. You turned yourself into a thinking machine and you put yourself in iron limits. With all that, you think you are not?”

 

Sherlock pursed his lips.

 

“It’s for the first time that I see such a thing in people, although I’ve lived long enough. You’re unique. You’ll grow old. You deserve to die on your own watch,” Ben paused for a minute. “Now go. Your time in Non London is running out when you still have things to do. Go, boy. I shall be watching your progress.” With that, Ben gave him back the skull and dissolved into the depths of the tower.

 

When exiting the doors, Sherlock was caught by a monk when he clutched at his sleeve.

 

“Sir can come here anytime he wishes. Sir now is a guest on Street Thirteen under the roots of Big Ben. Sir doesn’t need to be afraid anymore; Sir is untouchable.” He delivered a small bow and stepped back, letting Sherlock pass through.

 

\- 0 -

 

“You have to be an utter lunatic to be liked by the watchmakers,” Henry grumbled while they were leaving the territory of the Bushes. “If I still had hair, they’d surely turn grey.”

 

Sherlock didn’t say anything, quickly striding ahead.

 

“Well, at least now you’d know better than to disregard my advice. At least sometimes,” Henry went on. “Maybe you’ll realise that it’s not your city; there are more frightening things here than an ordinary death.”

 

“Correct me if I’m wrong. I was given this for protection,” Sherlock demonstrated the ring on his hand. “And you. So far I don’t see any use in both.”

 

Henry almost jumped, hurt.

 

“Use?! You loitered around the Market as though it was your personal cloud without any problems; what other uses do you need? You think strangers like you can walk the city so simply? I had warned you against the watchmakers, and it’s not my fault you were stupid enough not to listen. As for Lord Mayor’s ring, you were told it wasn’t omnipotent. The watchmakers don’t give a spit from the top of Big Ben about any authorities.”

 

“You chickened out.”

 

The skull breathed heavily, offended.

 

“What good could I do, armless and legless? They would’ve quickly made me into some trinket or whatnot. They say human bones incrustation is in fashion these days. If you’ve made a mistake, have the courage to own up to it.”

 

“Maybe instead of an educational lecture you could finally tell me about the case?” Sherlock snapped back.

 

“And don’t pretend you’re not ashamed. I can feel it.” Henry fidgeted in the detective’s hands. “We’ll talk about the case, but not here.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“On Thirteen Street? Do you even hear yourself speaking? Just so you know, certain streets in London don’t have houses under the number 13, whereas every house on _this_ street goes under the number 13. In the old times they knew what could bring bad luck. All those houses under the number 13, they have got to be somewhere, right?”

 

Sherlock glanced around himself. The grim, earthy road stretched and stretched ahead. Houses stared at them with their darkened windows, not even their number plaques visible.

 

“I was told a different version… aren’t local dwellers afraid of misfortunes?”

 

“You’ve just met them in person. You think they care about superstitions?”

 

They negotiated the Bushes and found themselves before the Thames, at the foot of tree-like Big Ben. There wasn’t a soul in the square. Sherlock made a step forward, but the asphalt started droning and humming under his feet, then it trembled, and he heard a hollow groan of the bell above his head.

 

“Speaking of bad luck. At such an hour – and we’re right under Big Ben. Just before the twelve tolls, dear Lord!”

 

Attempting his best to stay upright on the oscillating pavement, the detective rushed towards the riverbank, away from the buzzing, dendritic structure. About fifty feet away from it, the ground stopped shaking. Next to the tree, the asphalt continued to ripple in wave-like patterns. Big Ben bellowed, roared, and wailed, counting twelve beats. Sherlock fought the instinctive urge to cover his ears.

 

It ended as suddenly as it began. With the last strike of the bell, ineffable silence spread around the square to linger only for a minute – there came a sudden, loud snap and crash of stones from the Thames. Sherlock looked back to glance at the river. A heavy tidal wave rolled along the water.

 

“The London Bridge has fallen,” Henry commented. “It falls every night with the twelfth stroke. Have you heard the song?”

 

Sherlock shook his head.

 

“Oh, boy. Who am I even talking with?” With that, he began singing in a slightly strident voice, “ _’London Bridge is falling down, falling down, what shall we build it up withal?’_ Turn to the right now. I’ll give you a short cut to Piccadilly. We’ll talk about the case there. Right. Now go to the left and through the archway.”

 

Sherlock followed his lead, crossed an unfamiliar bystreet, and walked under the arch, his steps echoing off the pavement. Something glided across his face, as though a thin cobweb, and he instinctively half-closed his eyes. When he opened them, they already stood on Piccadilly.

 

There was still no statue at the top of the fountain.

 

“That winged bastard,” Henry swore. “If only Lord Mayor saw this; he would’ve moved that dolt to the Tunnels for at least a week.  Let him chase some rats there and flirt with some tube lizards instead for a change.”

 

Sherlock perched on the edge of the fountain and positioned the skull nearby. It was indeed safe on Piccadilly. Sherlock wasn’t used to relying on his intuition, but he keenly felt the difference between the dark air on Thirteen Street and the soft, barely noticeable breeze in the Circus.

 

The skull coughed.

 

“Well then, let’s do this. Are you ready to listen? All right. The first one to be murdered was old Bailey. No one heard anything and no one saw anything; no witnesses. It’s usually just like that; there are very few fools who would roam the streets at a late hour. When he was found, it was already too late to do anything.”

 

“And if it wasn’t, could you?”

 

“Well, it’s Bailey we’re talking about! Can you even imagine what a powerful creature the murderer must be to fully kill someone like him? If Lord Mayor had been there, or someone even smaller but with equally great powers, nothing would’ve happened, but Bailey was murdered. And after a few days passed, Paul repeated his fate at that same time you were talking to Lord Mayor, by the way.”

 

“Where did they live? What did they do? Can you provide anything apart from obvious and useless facts?”

 

The skull exhaled, shocked.

 

“What do you mean, _what did they do_?”

 

With the tips of his fingers, Sherlock furiously rubbed at his temples.

 

“People usually do something and live somewhere. If you’ve decided to make fun of my lack of information, you could have chosen a better time.”

 

Henry talked about the murdered people as though they were exceptionally important characters and as though everyone was supposed to know such banal things as their dwelling places or styles of life. There was the downside to Sherlock’s selective memory; he never remembered the names of celebrities or the banal things pertaining to them.

 

“O-oh,” Henry drawled as if he was suddenly struck with an important thought. “I see. You weren’t told,” he sighed. “How shall I better put it? Remember when we first met and I said that the Circus was Anteros’ territory?”

 

Sherlock nodded.

 

“Every building that is famous and ancient enough has its own essence. Its entity, if you will - its personification, if that helps. In your London, a building or a square is just a pile of stones, a heap of paving blocks, or a boulder of granite. The essence of a building, its soul, lives here. Anteros is the personification of Piccadilly. Everything that happens to him gets reflected on the whole Circus, but he can’t be killed, because he feeds on the energy from your world. Everyone who thinks about him, who paints him, makes pictures of him, talks or tells stories about him – they all give him life energy. Of course, he can be stabbed with a knife, for instance, but he would resurrect, and the offender wouldn’t get away with it. It’s just impossible to kill such a bundle of life energy, and Old Bailey and Paul are creatures of the same sort. You call them the Court and the Cathedral, only here they are living just like you or me or Anteros. They walk, they talk, they go on their business.”

 

Sherlock widened his eyes in perplexity.

 

“But you just said they were murdered.”

 

“That’s why Lord Mayor invited you, you smart git. You think if we could solve it on our own, we would go to that London of yours in search of a genius show-off?”

 

The detective remained silent. New information reluctantly settled in his head.

 

“Too much?” the skull inquired sympathetically, and sighed. “Get up. If it’s too much we’re paying a visit to someone.”

 

“Who?”

 

“Someone who’ll help you get the hang of the term. I somehow didn’t consider that you would have to actually see what you’re dealing with. We’re going to Newgate’s Maiden. You’ll see with your own eyes, just as you like it; maybe then you’ll understand something. She’s taking care of new-old Bailey.”

 

“Newgate?”

 

“Newgate… No, just pick me up and let’s go. I won’t bear any more questions. You can speak well, can’t you? You have the accent of private schools and you’re bound to have a good education, don’t you?”

 

“I don’t keep useless information in my head,” Sherlock retorted.

 

“ _‘Useless’_. Well, well…” the skull let out a scornful laugh. The detective lifted him from the edge of the fountain and headed for the exit from the Circus. “My young friend, you’re going to have to revise your definition of usefulness.”

 

\- 0 -

 

Sherlock noticed that in Non London people weren’t guided by real locations of buildings or streets and their relation to each other but rather by a kind of a gut feeling which he didn’t have. Time and again on their way, Henry asked him to turn right or left, and Sherlock didn’t notice a single familiar street, although he knew London’s every nook and cranny.

 

“Knock on the door,” Henry prompted him when they reached the high doors of the Old Bailey Court.

 

Sherlock knocked. The doors swung open after a small pause, letting them come inside.

 

The halls of the Court were empty and looked dirty and abandoned, as though no one had cleaned up in there for weeks at a stretch. They swerved between the corridors until Sherlock noticed the light that seeped from beneath a door. Henry encouragingly nuzzled into his hand, and they entered.

 

A fireplace was lit in the room. Next to it, on a furry carpet, stood a velvet-upholstered chair with carved arms where a lady sat, cradling a baby.

 

“I greet Newgate’s Maiden,” the skull said with profound reverence.

 

“I greet you too, Henry,” the lady responded, then glanced at Sherlock. “What does a man with Dick Whittington’s stamp need from me?”

 

It was hard to look at her. She appeared quite normal; a tall woman in a dark dress, her long hair arranged in a sophisticated style, with no jewelry on her arms or her neck. Only the hem of her dress was bestrewn with seed pearls. However, when Sherlock’s eyes came across her dark blue ones, he somehow saw not the woman, but a superb and somber building in her place. The woman remained sitting there, but the edifice’s essence leaked through her, not appearing in the room per se; yet it entered right into Sherlock’s thoughts, right into his head. And it was unpleasant.

 

“Tell us what you know about the murder of old Bailey,” the skull decided to speak for them both, apparently.

 

“He had been deprived of his life energy, drained to the last drop.” The woman clutched the baby closer to herself and stroked his hair. “He was held against his will for a long time. He probably tried to resist, but couldn’t. When one’s strength ebbs away, it’s difficult to sustain one’s physical form and repel an assault. It’s all I know.”

 

“How is he now?”

 

“Very weak. He’ll need a long time to recover, but it won’t influence the daylight world very much – I’ll hold the walls since the foundation of the building still belongs to me.”

 

Sherlock felt awful. He could say nothing about this woman, and he didn’t understand what she was talking about, and he couldn’t even start to imagine how he should conduct this investigation. The place of the accident didn’t do much good, for the body was absent, and all the explanations he got provided with boiled down to the same metaphysical nonsense. The presence of Newgate’s Maiden oppressed him, and it became hard to breathe while being in the same room with her.

 

“Who could kill him?” the detective managed, finally. It was an idiotic query, but it seemed perfectly clear that all the rest of his questions would be utterly pointless here anyway.    

 

“I don’t know,” the woman replied. “Murders like that don’t happen in our city; it infracts the principal law and harms all of our citizens. I can’t think of anyone who would need to do something like that. The city is ravaged only by fires and plague, but it’s in the past now,” she let out a sigh and suddenly came closer to take Sherlock by the hand. Her fingers were as cold as stone. “I see that you don’t understand. It’s hard for you, but you want to help. Sit down by the fire and I shall tell you something. I’m indebted to Lord Mayor, for it was Dick Whittington who put in the first stone of Newgate Prison. He’s like a father to me.”

 

Sherlock wilted in the chair and placed the skull on the little table nearby. Henry, who seemed to feel for Maiden the utmost deference that verged on admiration, fell silent in amazement. Apparently, she rarely talked in that fashion.

 

Newgate’s voice was hollow, but not loud. It was still proving hard to listen to her, but Sherlock gradually got used to the sound of it.

 

“A building is born two times and dies two times. When a first stone of it is put in your city, the building is still dead. In order to make it live, it needs people, the energy of feelings and memories, remembrances and thoughts. This energy is invisible to you there, but here it’s real. Everything that everyone has ever thought of this building, everything they have ever felt towards it, any painting and any story they’ve created, its prominence and its memory – all of that gives it life. Then the building is properly born.”

 

Sherlock nodded. The process was quite simple if he didn’t start thinking about its metaphysical connotations. Henry’s explanations started to actually make sense.

 

“All old-timers of London have a huge stock of energy. Millions of people know about Big Ben and the Market, or that Anteros lives on Piccadilly, or that the Opera House is there in its place. People are our life. One can destroy a building, but one cannot destroy a memory. There’s no Newgate Prison in your London anymore, and for a long time too, but I still live,” she raised her head proudly as she spoke. “Because Old Bailey has been erected on my place, because I’m remembered, because there are legends connected with my existence, I didn’t sink into oblivion.”

 

“That means no one can ever kill you.”

 

“Perhaps,” Newgate’s Maiden sighed, slightly cradling the baby that almost started grumbling in her arms. “Of course, you cannot destroy us with a normal weapon. You could stab Ben, for instance, but in your world not even a little piece of stone would splinter off the clock tower.”

 

“Then, not everything which is done here is reflected on your doppelgangers in London?” Sherlock interjected.

 

“In essence we’re the same thing,” the woman answered, unperturbed. Sherlock gave her a nod and she continued, “But if you take away its energy, its memory, its thoughts and feelings, if you take them away… then we will die. Of course, you can’t take them entirely away, for London is remembered by many, but if one tries very hard we’ll resurrect and turn into something like that,” she nodded pointedly at the baby, “and we won’t be able to keep our domains under control. That’s why we call it a murder. And you, you have to make haste.” All of a sudden, she got on her feet and approached Holmes’ chair. “You become thinner, you thaw in our air. You have to get back until it’s too late, otherwise it’ll put you to sleep.”

 

Sherlock decided not to ask what would happen if he were to fall asleep; he suspected he wouldn’t like the answer to this question anyway. The skull became fidgety on the little table and, finally, effusively thanked Newgate’s Maiden for her hospitality. Sherlock picked him up and they left.

 

“At long last there’s someone amongst you who was able to provide necessary initial data,” Sherlock slightly shook the skull. “And what did she mean by ‘thinning’?”

 

“I told you that you were a stranger. You can’t spend a lot of time on our territory. It wearies you.”

 

Sherlock, indeed, felt fatigued and sluggish, as though he’d been working for an entire week and was at the breaking point. He was trying his best to ignore the sensation; it wasn’t the time for the whims of his body.

 

“I feel quite capable of doing mental work.”

 

“She knows better, trust me,” the skull fell silent and listened hard to something. “Oh. Wings. I think it’s for us.”

 

Cawing and flapping its wings, a raven flew down and onto the pavement. Its beak held a letter and there also, for some bizarre reason, was a telephone receiver with its cut wire dangling.

 

“It’s for me,” Henry said, his voice joyous. “I thank you, Reverent.” He told the raven, and then turned to Sherlock. “Open it and let me read it.”

 

Sherlock wanted to look at the letter himself, but the lines were inexplicably blurry and wouldn’t settle in front of his eyes.

 

“Have no one told you it’s impolite to read someone else’s correspondence?” Henry asked, spitefully. “Unfold it before me.”

 

Having considered what was written in there, the skull hummed, contented.

 

“Lord Mayor has arranged everything. You need to go.”

 

The detective’s eyes automatically went to check his wristwatch and he mentally swore.

 

“Is there a method for defining at what time I will be back in my London?”

 

The skull snorted.

 

“It’s the watchmakers who are in charge of the time in the city. Considering what happened to you today, you can appear at any time at any place. If you see your own self taking a taxi, don’t get involved. And don’t forget this,” the skull pushed to him the receiver which the raven had brought.

 

Sherlock remained silent, expecting more. Henry heaved a dramatic sigh.

 

“Take the receiver and bring it up to your ear. In the telephone booths of Non London one can hear any conversations. It will work in your city, too. You won’t be able to contact Lord Mayor, but you’ll get the information you need.”

 

Sherlock stuffed the receiver into the pocket of his coat and, not for the first time today, felt like a complete idiot. It wasn’t his city. Here, probably, some tourist who wasn’t blessed with the gift of intellect would drool all over the incomprehensible. Holmes, on the contrary, was irritated with the discrepancies.

 

“How do I exit?”

 

“Follow the raven.”

 

Sherlock put the skull on the ground. The raven was still perching nearby, its eyes glimmering with a cunning twinkle and its feathers all ruffled. Upon seeing that the detective was ready, it unhurriedly stepped forward, awkwardly waddling its legs. After a few steps Sherlock looked back, but saw only the familiar pitch-black shadows. In the next moment his shoulder forcefully collided with a tree. 

 

He found himself next to the pool in the most ordinary and awfully familiar Regent’s Park. The raven, cawing a mocking caw, took wing and vanished out of sight.

 

\- 0 -

 

The Admiral felt anxious. From his column, he was watching the city that unfolded in front of his eyes and had realised that Non London was nervous. Energy partitions between districts rippled with waves, the streetlights moved exceptionally in shoals; from his height they seemed like tiniest pearls of light. He saw the entire city, but wherever he looked it felt restless, especially from Highgate’s side. It was a disquieting sign, very disquieting. And most importantly, he failed to feel the reason behind it – there was nothing alien in Non London.

 

Nelson went down, thrust both of his hands into the base of the column and extracted an old musket, his infallible weapon which had served him loyally in more than one battle. He charged it and leaned to pat a lion that approached him.

 

“Alright, my friend?” he asked. “Have you found anything?”

 

The lion shook its head.

 

“And what about your brother? In the patrol? Nothing? Odd, very odd indeed.” The Admiral thought for a moment. “You told me about the trace you picked up on recently. You couldn’t find it either?

  

The lion closed his eyes and nuzzled into Nelson’s shoulder. The Admiral stroked it against its rich mane and pulled away.

 

“Stick around, all right?” he said. “I have a bad feeling.”

 

The lion nodded and trotted away from the square, its gait soft and light. Nelson glanced around himself: there were people in Trafalgar Square, they were strolling, hurrying on their way, or simply passing by. No one instilled suspicion, he knew everyone. Nevertheless, he needed to keep the utmost vigilance, what with all the murders of late. That time no one had noticed anything either. And Highgate Cemetery… He would have to report to Lord Mayor Whittington. Mayor would want to know about that.

 

The Admiral had already gone a few circles around the square, his measured tread bringing him to the rear of the Gallery when in one of the bystreets he got attached. A shadow rushed at him from a corner and knocked him down off his feet. His weapon rolled to the side; a woman shrieked in the distance.

 

Nelson jumped to his feet when he saw a gigantic black hound, ready for the second spring. He had never seen such furious, such frenetic eyes.

 

 _‘Is that so?’_ Nelson mused. _‘Do old legends come back? It can’t be, he’s long since…’_

 

He didn’t have time to finish his thought; the beast attacked. In earlier times, the Admiral could tackle similar creatures with bare hands, but at present he immediately felt weakened. There were suddenly rats under his feet. They surrounded him, hung on his pants, skittered along his clothes, slowing down his movements. Nelson was barely in time to dodge the assault. The hound made another attempt, and they snatched at each other, fighting on the pavement.

 

As soon as he lost his balance, a horde of rats gushed at him in a disgusting, crawling spate. The pack swarmed all over him from head to foot. The Admiral knew what it meant.

 

The struggle was a brief one: the hound snarled, its claws tearing off Nelson’s uniform and trying to aim at his throat, while the latter attempted to beat it off with all his might, studiously ignoring the skittering posse of rats. Their tiniest teeth thrust in his leg and left a bite mark on his thigh…

 

The entire dark alley seemed to flood with rats: they darted along the ground, they poured from the walls, and they emerged from the bystreets. The surrounding area stirred, squeaked and clicked all over. With every passing minute, Nelson became weaker and weaker, realising that every maneuver of his only brought him closer to the hound’s sharp fangs. But he hated losing, and to whom? To a nasty, lice-eaten mongrel. Even if its leash was held by an invisible, yet familiar hand? No.

 

With a huge effort, he shook off the beast that was momentarily swept by a golden arrow which hurled the hound against the wall. It was the lion who came to his rescue. Of course, who else? His staunch friend sensed his predicament and rushed to his side as fast as he could.

 

Nelson heavily got on his feet, tearing off the rats. The rodents fell on the ground to be instantaneously replaced by others. He didn’t worry about the lion; this pathetic, flea-infested cur wasn’t a match to him.

 

The Admiral straightened his back and raised his head:

 

“Reveal yourself! Only cowards hide behind the corners.”

 

A shapeless silhouette detached from the museum wall, its saggy clothes drab-coloured and dirty. Long, disheveled hair fell on its face. The cloak entirely concealed its figure; thin fingers nervously fiddled the torn lacy cuffs. A woman’s fingers.

 

“Hello, Horatio,” she laughed, throwing her hands in the air. She had an uneven, dancing gait and her voice sounded brittle and high-pitched. Nelson looked at her pitifully. He recognised her at once, despite her battered appearance, even though he remembered her at her best, a beautiful and proud queen, beguiling and fair, with a shiny mane of hair. Now a flicker of madness seeped through her eyes, thin lips curved in a malicious grin. “You remember me, don’t you? So strange. Everyone has forgotten me, but not you. No one remembers me, but you do. You’ve always pitied the little girl from Bermondsey. You’ve always pitied her, haven’t you?”

 

She kept coming closer as her ringing voice pierced his ears, a pungent and cutting shrill. He heard heavy strikes from his right side, a roar and a yelp; the lion was fighting tooth and nail for his master. But why was it taking him so long? The dog couldn’t possibly be so strong! Nelson couldn’t move a limb. A thick, flitting downpour of rodents blanketed him and immobilized him. The Admiral was quickly losing his strength; it leaked in rivulets out of him, and flowed to the person in front of him. The one who once was a queen, crowned by her own shiny hair and whose name people feared to utter after the night would descend. 

 

Now, she was a wild, guffawing creature with rapid and predatory movements who was slowly approaching. She stopped right in front of him, bringing her hand around his neck, and a few rats scurried onto her shoulders at once, and settled there, their beady eyes gazing at him.

 

“Look at the girl from Bermondsey,” she whispered. “You remembered me, but you didn’t notice me. No one noticed me. I’m going to make it right.” She pressed her lips to his, kissing him wildly and painfully; her fingernail scratched his cheek.

 

“Goodbye, Horatio,” she said, pulling away, and all of a sudden, she disintegrated into a waterfall of dirt-coloured, muddy rats. Her insane burst of laugher skirled in the air, and the rats faltered for a split second before springing, all at once and as if on cue, at the weakening Admiral, covering him completely.

 

Next to him, the lion let out a frightening, hoarse rattle; blood gushed out of his torn throat. Soon, it all ended; and there lay only a gnawed corpse of the lion, and the Admiral’s dead eyes were staring into the starless sky of Non London.

 

\- 0 -

 

Sherlock phoned Lestrade at once, as soon as he caught a taxi. He felt ill at ease, but he needed to know something, and urgently.

 

“Sherlock?” the Inspector sounded surprised. “Have you forgotten something? I've only just received your message.”

 

The detective looked out the window. It was still evening, indeed, and going by the Inspector’s reaction, the same one. The skull’s joke about meeting himself now seemed quite timely.

 

“Sherlock! Are you still there? Forgotten something?”

 

“No! I mean, I wanted to ask you something… I might need…” Holmes found himself babbling, incoherently. “I’ll call you back, be in touch!” He hung up the phone. He changed his mind. He suddenly didn’t care what Lestrade was going to think.

 

When he got out of the cab, he almost reeled. Never did any of his night marathons exhaust him like this one had. The strength it had consumed was only comparable to that of a week-long pursuit of a psychopathic maniac, without food, without sleep and on sheer coffee and adrenaline. The detective made it up the stairs and heaved into the living room. He shucked off his clothes and stepped into the bathroom where he experienced an irrational urge to inspect himself fully and properly, especially the joints where his arms and legs connected with his body. Naturally, he found no signs of seams or incisions.

 

He nearly fell asleep while standing under the shower.

 

Sherlock felt so weary for the first time in his life. His body nearly wailed with weariness, every single muscle ached, his eyes were closing and he kept dozing off time and again for seconds on end until he had to force his eyes open again. He was so hungry he even remembered the phone number of the closest Chinese restaurant, called them and dictated an exclusively vast list of dishes, surprising even himself. However, minutes later, he nodded off right on the couch, wrapped in his bathrobe, a delivery man utterly forgotten.

 

He was woken up by a violent ringing of the doorbell; it was the delivery man who finally got through to the sleeping detective. Sherlock, not even bothering to fully wake up, went to take his order, then counted the money, paid the delivery man and shut the door. After heaping the packages onto the table, he staggered back to the couch and slept until morning.

 

Perhaps, that was what others felt like at the end of every stressful working day. In that case, the lethargy of people’s cogitative processes was almost excusable. Sherlock got up rather late, with a feeling that he did it exclusively out of inner obstinacy; he could still use a couple of hours more. However, his trained organism promptly dealt with the consequences of not getting enough sleep. His voracious hunger helped him wolf down the yesterday’s take away without as much as heating it. The meal didn’t ameliorate his mood, for Sherlock hated catering to the trifling needs of his body.

 

The receiver he had yesterday stowed into the pocket of his coat was still there. Fishing it out, Sherlock flipped the phone in his hands. It was a commonplace receiver, of which there were hundreds in London telephone booths. Sherlock harrumphed, reached for the magnifier that lay on the small table and set to studying the souvenir he had brought from another world.

 

He came to quite interesting conclusions. At a first glance, the receiver was exactly the same, but even if it applied to any kind of London, it did so, most certainly, to the other one. The phone appeared to be scratched as from a frequent and prolonged use, but at the same time carried no fingerprints, save for those of Sherlock. It had a couple of worn-out spots in rather unexpected places. The plastic felt uneven to the touch, more uneven that it should have. The cord, much to his surprise, wasn’t torn as it had seemed at first. It simply ended as though the receiver had been intentionally produced with a cord only a few-centimetres long.

 

Satisfied with the visual examination, the detective brought the receiver up to his ear. For a minute, he sat in silence, feeling quite foolish until something gave a beep and Dick Whittington’s voice reached him from afar.

 

“I planned to have the pleasure of meeting you in person, Mr. Holmes, but for the dearth of time it proved impossible to arrange. All of us here are short of time. During your previous visit, another murder was committed; the Admiral is no longer with us, and neither is one if the guard lions.” his voice wavered at the last syllable. “It means that all of Trafalgar Square is endangered. I’m holding its borders and am attempting to amend what had happened, but should another one or two murders take place, chaos will indubitably ensue in the city; my powers are not limitless. You should listen to me very attentively and try to make haste. You can trust my words – I saw old Bailey’s body even before it was reborn again, and I found St Paul and the Admiral. Newgate’s Maiden has already told you what they were, so I shan’t repeat it. I’ll only add that prior to the rebirth, the body fully disappears without leaving any traces behind, but I was in time to see them.”  

 

Sherlock heard him heave a sigh as if he was apparently gathering his thoughts. “Old Bailey was found by his neighbours. It was very quiet that night. Old buildings accumulate a lot of voices, and after some time the stones themselves start emitting sounds. But that night voices ceased; all of them, voices of judges and hubbub of throngs. They realised then that something was wrong. He was killed, drained of all energy, of all that it was only possible to bereave him. Only in that fashion one can kill the essence of a building, but I fail to even imagine why someone would need to do such a dire thing, and nothing similar has ever occurred in the city. His body disappeared right before my eyes, but was never reborn. I don’t know how I shall better describe it…” he trailed off for a second before resuming:

 

“It’s obvious for all of us. When a building perishes, its new body appears at once, already clad in clothes and regalia, and carrying the same form as it had carried erstwhile. Those bodies, however, display nothing material. I searched for a long time for baby Bailey. It was almost as though he tried to reappear as far from the crime scene as possible, as though he felt scared - but he has nothing to be scared of, Mr. Holmes. He can’t be killed.”   

 

Another sigh followed.  

 

“The same thing happened to Paul. Upon noticing that the bells haven’t tolled at the appointed hour, I went in search for him. I managed to find him, but he disappeared right in front of me, and I sought after the baby until I discovered it in the subterranean catacombs, and the same happened to the Admiral. Something scared them to death, and it scared them so much they were trying to relocate their new rebirth from the place of their death as far as their strength allowed. They were trying to hide. I fail to understand why this has been done, and why someone needed to wring all energy out of the most potent dwellers of the city? We don’t have alchemists or warlocks who could employ it for their purposes. No one here kills for amusement. Admittedly, Non London can be dangerous on occasion, but it’s dangerous only for the reckless. The watchmakers can dismantle a passer-by and transmute them into elements for their mechanisms; Gog and Magog can fly into a rage and plunder the city in chase for quarry, and the Thames readily absorbs people with the tide just like it gulps down sand and stone. One can be mugged in the city, one can be even killed at that, but Paul, and Bailey, and the Admiral had nothing to offer; they possessed only their lands. There’s only one law in Non London, Mr. Holmes, the law of harmony. To break it means to plunge the city into chaos, which is bound to reflect on your city as well. This is a direct threat against all living, and surely no one would bite the hand that feeds them. Every citizen of Non London learns this lesson well—”   

 

Dick Whittington fell silent. Sherlock was about to presume that the conversation was over when an impatient meow rang out on the other end.

 

Lord Mayor hastened to add, “Oh yes! I don’t know if you shall deem this important. But all of the victims had extremely rumpled clothes. As though they had been dragged somewhere, constantly turned over, or the fabric of their clothes had been rubbed with sand. I’m afraid this is all I’m able to provide you with. You know where to find me.”

 

On hearing long beeps on the other end of the line, Sherlock flung the receiver onto the couch and in an instant reached for his laptop.

 

His internet search always started with the news feed. It helped him get geared up for work and fine-tune his informational filters. The modern world was a world of digital rubbish and sometimes the specific settings of his perceptive filters had a lot of impact on the outcome. Sherlock never understood the idiocy of swallowing the oncoming information in its entirety.  

 

His attention focus was promptly riveted to the huge headline in the midst of the page.

 

“Destructions in Trafalgar Square!”

 

The detective skimmed the article. The pavement had cracked in Trafalgar Square at night. Judging by the photographs, the pavement had been sledge-hammered very persistently and for a very long time. Either that, or the point of seismic activity had just opened under the city of London. One of the lions which sat at the foot of Nelson’s Column had been split asunder. However, the restorers promised to assemble it back to its proper state. A memory flashed in Sherlock’s mind on account of Whittington’s assessment of the murdered Admiral and the perished lion. He flipped through the concomitant news articles – thankfully, no scarcity there, for journalists could not let a story like that slip them by.

 

There were no reasons for the collapse. No underground activity, no psychotic giant with a sledgehammer – nothing of the sort. Only the tiles in the pavement got broken and a lion got crashed in two parts. Changes in Non London seemed to instantaneously affect the city.

 

Sherlock scrolled down the page and stumbled upon similar news bits. There had been a collapse in one of the basements of St Paul’s Cathedral; no reasons, no traces of vandals if they had ever been there in the first place. A whole layer of plaster peeled off the ceiling in one of the court rooms of Old Bailey. There were no sound causes for that damage either. He also found a hysterical article in The Mirror in which a woman claimed she had discovered a world-wide conspiracy for destruction of the architectural heritage of the United Kingdom and profusely complained of the police’s idleness.  

 

A thought passed through his mind about calling Lestrade for further details, but Sherlock dismissed it as unimportant. The Inspector could hardly impart him anything new; besides, he seemed to barely even investigate the matter, if this woman’s ravings were anything to go by.

 

He looked, and he looked through the news, ruminating on everything Lord Mayor had told him. The thought about the link between the two cities was his leading one, and the most important at that, for other inferences simply amassed around it. Sherlock lay immovable on the couch, his fingertips steepled under his chin and his eyes half-closed. A motive. A motive and a cause. Nonsensical crimes in the unreal city.

 

The detective fluttered his eyes open and reached for his laptop. He opened the search again and typed:

 

“Catastrophes London”

 

He didn’t know whether it was his adventure with the watchmakers to have influenced him so much, or the time he had spent in Non London, but now Sherlock saw perfectly well what he didn’t notice before. Metaphysics fell into the conventional frames of logic and all he needed to know were the starting points.

 

He skimmed the pages of the sites, absorbing the information. The Great Fire of London. The murderous mist. The plague epidemic. If all of the above were just the reflections on real London, what could it even be in its doppelganger? And most importantly, what actually caused those catastrophes? Journalists could not establish the reasons behind the destructions in Trafalgar Square, because they simply didn’t know where to look. While Sherlock knew full well where.

 

The detective jerked upright, throwing off his bathrobe on the way. He needed to speak to somebody from Non London, and quickly. A few minutes later he was already putting his coat on. In moments of epiphanies and absolute clarity, everything around him would become transparent and simple, even, perhaps, primitive, but completely integrated. Sherlock didn’t care that he took a cab to get to Non London last time, and that only during the nighttime the dividing partitions between London and Non London were hazy and vague, to hell with them. Now that he had gotten the hang of the rules of the reverse side of reality, he knew with conviction that all those doors and shifts were mere symbols. They were props, or crutches, which only served to help an inexperienced traveler.

 

Sherlock Holmes didn’t need crutches.

 

Non London was a nighttime city? Unimportant. Non London was always there, it lay on the parallel side to this London, and he only needed to know the gist to make everything seem simple. A cab? To hell with the cab, to hell with all those babysitters who gazed at Sherlock like he was a child, as if he understood nothing in their world, in their topsy-turvy city. If he wished to go to the city right then, he would do just that, and if he wished to go to the city in his own way, he would do exactly as he saw fit. It was simple, wasn’t it? He only needed the connection with the other dimension, and what was the ring on his finger if not the magnet which would draw him to the other side? All that mystic nonsense could very well submit to the will of a genius.

 

Sherlock stepped on the porch of his apartment in Holborn and closed his eyes. He concentrated. He knew how to distance himself from all thoughts, he knew how to conjure up necessary images and moods, and he knew how to mark out the important, and how to get rid of everything superfluous, casting it away from his mind.

 

He flicked his eyes open. The starless sky stretched a charcoal canvas above his head; streetlights gave off a balmy light at a distance, and the mist shrouded the pavement. Sherlock took stock of Buckingham Palace, whose majestic frame towered in front of him, and burst out laughing. Close enough. He didn’t need any cabs anymore.

 

As if in response to his thoughts, a bus emerged from the hovering mist. It moved in a peculiar, soundless fashion, even though it should’ve produced dozens of noises considering its venerable age; Churchill had been taking buses like that, yes, Mrs. Adenberg? Sherlock remembered Ruth and smiled. Another piece of the jigsaw fell into its proper place.

 

The bus floated up closer. Its headlights poured the mist that leaked further onto the ground and spread over the pavement. The vehicle pulled towards Sherlock, a double-deckered dog eager to nuzzle into its master’s knees. Seconds after, the engine purred with approval, and the bus turned, swinging its door open as it slightly lowered itself, offering the detective to get on. Sherlock stepped inside, sat down on a seat and stroked a hand over the old leather. It purred again.  

 

Leaning against the back of the seat, the detective ordered:

 

“Piccadilly.”

 

Genius though he was, Sherlock didn’t notice and he couldn’t have possibly noticed one important detail: throughout the entire morning in his apartment, a small grey rat lurked behind the chair, of which there are thousands in any city. It lurked very quietly, without squeaking and hardly even breathing. After the detective vanished right from the threshold of his own house, the rat noiselessly scurried after him, then darted towards the wall and disappeared as though it hadn’t even been there. 

 

The bus let out a light grumble and started off while Sherlock inspected the scenery out the window. Buckingham Palace and the fountain next to it were beginning to fade in the distance; minutes ago he could see them clearly down to the last minute detail, just like in his usual London. The interior of the bus looked as though someone had a rather vague notion about the purpose of the vehicle and didn’t quite know where each component went. The cabin consisted solely of a seat and a wheel, and the latter kept moving of its own accord. There weren’t any pedals, and instead of a dashboard the darkness frothed before the windscreenand dripped out from the headlights, blazing its own trail around the city. The rest of the seats were positioned as they ought to be, but appeared too cosy and too comfortable to mirror the usual standards. Apart from that, the chairs were upholstered with the softest leather.

 

Sherlock smirked. After all, it was very, very logical. Things and places in this city were substituted with ideas about them, with memories and expectations.

 

The bus was about to leave the square, and Sherlock supposed they were going to reach Piccadilly in no time, since it wasn’t a long way from where they were. However, the double-decker, after surpassing a dim, transparent partition which encompassed the square, plunged into opaque, viscid nothingness in order to momentarily surface out, popping up next to Chinatown, the district ablaze with lights and fires. He hardly had time to notice how a thick-scaled dragon which had slumbered by the traditional wooden gates raised its head and how the bus, its windscreen crashing into another diaphanous barrier, submerged into subsequent nothingness. It kept happening a few times more, and with each new immersion they appeared at a different place. Parks, the observatory, the Non London Eye which stared at them with its penetrating blue, never blinking eye; St Paul’s dark outlines… It set Sherlock thinking. They travelled in a nonlinear mode. Henry, as far as he remembered, also led him in a way that wasn’t a direct route, as though there wasn’t any direct route to even talk about. He remembered a thin membrane which separated the Market from the rest of Covent Garden and the endless space inside the Market; he remembered the partitions which encompassed all Non London’s districts. Each of them was a separate entity, each operated on its own, and from any of the blocks he could get into any other one, without taking a usual path and without even resorting to the notion of distance. It resembled… layers. Every citizen of the city seemed to be aware of where their borders touched and would make straight for the joint. Ha! He didn’t need a guide anymore, he’d resolved it on his own; he could reach Non London without anyone’s assistance and now could maneuver around the city with no obstacles to hinder his advancement. An exultant smile quirked his mouth. 

 

And there he was, thinking that logic was alien to this eccentric place when that was by no means true. Its logic was just different, and if he managed to turn over his coordinate system, then the city structure appeared quite reasonable. There was everything that people remembered, and the places they sustained with their memories and emotions, with nothing in between. It was so simple.

 

His smile widened. He realised he was enjoying this adventure immensely, unraveling step by step how the city functioned. Dick Whittington was right; no one could ever offer him anything like this.

 

The bus surmounted another glittering barrier, gingerly navigating the streets and skirting people, when it finally reached Piccadilly and swung its doors open, invitingly. Sherlock grazed his fingers along the leather seat in lieu of a goodbye and left.

 

From his latest visit, Piccadilly hadn’t changed at all. If there really was the chaos that wreaked havoc on Non London, it surely didn’t reach this place. He noticed the skull which lay on the edge of the fountain, with some tall and winged fellow idly lounging right next to it.

 

“Good evening.” Sherlock knew he had a certain propensity for dramatic appearances and almost never held back on it. Euphoria from his successful, independent transition still seethed in his blood.

 

Henry’s reaction fully met his expectations: the skull nearly toppled to the ground, jumping with surprise. Then, quite unexpectedly, it rounded on the bus and not on Sherlock.

 

“What were you even thinking? With everything that’s going on in the city, you bring a stranger through the layers! You dull-witted, brainless dolt.”

 

“Leave him alone,” the winged fellow stood up for the bus, his voice indolent. “As for the brains, he never had them in the first place.” He lifted himself from the edge of the fountain, stepped up closer to the double-decker and ran a hand along the warm bonnet. “Go. There’s a good lad, don’t listen to him. Go, but keep away from the outskirts, all right?”

 

Emitting a short grunt in reply, the bus whirled on its wheels and vacated the Circus. The winged one quietly smirked and turned to face Sherlock. It was most likely that same Anteros, Piccadilly’s guardian. At least, he bore a striking resemblance to the statue from Sherlock’s city. Tall and thin, Anteros looked like a young thespian who would play a charming villain in romantic comedies. Fair-skinned and dark-haired, he carried himself with languid grace as though he had just come out from the curtains. He had a light black toga, huge wings fluttering behind his back, also dark-coloured, yet not black. Sherlock couldn’t quite place the colour.

 

“So, that’s what you look like,” Anteros drawled, circling around Sherlock and sizing him up with an evaluating look. “The Irresistible Sherlock Holmes from the daytime world. The man who startled the entire Market, who walked off unscathed from the watchmakers, who spoke to Lord Mayor and who traipsed along Thirteen Street without any consequences. Rumours spread like a house on fire, handsome. Wait a tad longer, and you’ll turn into a living legend. The word travels fast around here.”

 

“Stop it,” Henry growled. “You behave like a… And you,” he turned to Sherlock. “Don’t get excited.”

 

“Henry, I’m more than two hundred years old, and I’m long since an adult. I behave myself as I see fit. By the way,” Anteros looked at Sherlock, “I’m generally supposed to punish the cold-hearted like him.”

 

Anteros’ eyes were entirely black, betraying no signs of pupils or irises.

 

“Henry is a bore,” he told him. “He always was a bore, he died like a bore, and he keeps being a bore. But you wanted to ask something, didn’t you?”

 

Holmes resisted the urge to shake his head. Piccadilly’s guardian’s voice had a slightly hypnotic quality to it.

 

“The bus,” he said, at length. “That was the same bus everyone else had seen. Why did I see it just now?”

 

“Curious one, you are,” Anteros shrugged. “He always finds strangers. But since you were expected, he didn’t have the courage to come to you. It’s not like he’s fully reasonable, come to think of it…”

 

“How did you get here?” Henry interjected.

 

“It’s all very simple, if you put your mind to it,” Sherlock answered smugly, with a slightly disparaging air, as he perched on the edge of the fountain next to the duo. “The system is no harder than any of ours. In the end, everything abides by logic. But why did I appear in front of the Palace? I aimed for something else.”

 

“Well, of course,” the skull laughed. “Everyone who doesn’t enter through the doors gets drawn by the Palace. It’s… Well, you see, everything has its night side, whereas the Palace is by itself. It’s like a rod which connects the two cities. We have monarchy here, I hope you know that. It’s the basis of our consciousness, of the structure of our country and so forth. The Royal Palace is in both worlds at the same time. It’s a neutral territory, and the safest one at that. Although, no one from Non London can enter it.”

 

Sherlock was silent for a moment, arranging the newly-acquired pieces of data among the already sorted ones.

 

“I have a few questions to ask,” he said. “It’s important.”

 

“Well, out with them, then,” Henry encouraged. Sherlock thought his voice sounded a touch tense.

 

“Don’t even think that I’m not going anywhere,” Anteros smiled, coming upon the skull’s meaningful glare, and settled comfortably on the edge of the fountain beside Sherlock. “I’m interested.”

 

“Well, be interested quietly,” the skull grumbled.

 

“You’ve always been such a Victorian, Henry.” He turned to Sherlock, “They’ve been continually complaining about my manners. Said I came off as ‘too sensitive’”.

 

“Stop it.”

 

“And you stop grouching and thinking that my behaviour is somehow offensive to the spirit of our respectable city.”

 

Sherlock heaved a bored sigh and heard Henry make a scornful sound.

 

“Don’t pay him any mind. Ask away.”

 

“The Great Fire. The plague epidemic. Everything that happens in our city reflects on yours, but so does everything which happens here reflect on London. Where exactly did the plague start?”

 

“Gosh, he is a smart young thing, too,” Anteros sniffed as he waved his wings with a slightly disdainful air before soaring up and perching atop of the fountain, on his proper spot. Apparently, he wasn’t really following the flow of conversation, but participated in it with a sole purpose of teasing Henry.

 

“It’s hard to tell what’s primary,” the skull answered, pensively. “At that time, both of the cities had been on the verge of dying, and it was the most large-scale disruption of laws in their entire history. Of course, there were other epidemic outbreaks, and other fires burnt in the city, but they had never affected our side. Then the King of Plague paid us a visit. He walked along Europe and then reached the Island. He had a lot of fun here until he met the Fire. I don’t know much about it, because at that time I wasn’t in the city just yet. However, it ended with their mutual elimination. The whole city rose. For some time they were held under the Tower, then in the Tunnels, until Highgate appeared.”

 

“Cemetery?” Sherlock ascertained.  

 

“Precisely. It was a popular place, and very soon it appeared here, too. Lord Mayor asked Big Ben for help, and the latter agreed, bringing two of his masters to seal up the graveyard. Forever. Now there’s no time in there at all. The Fire is long since extinguished, the Plague might still be around there, but no one is bothered with them anymore.”

 

“Are there any ways of escape?”

 

“None, you genius. You’ve got to understand that you can’t escape from somewhere where there’s no time. It’s the same moment over there, there is no ‘now’ or ‘later’. It’s just concentrated eternity.”

 

“What if they get help from the outside?”

 

The skull made a dismissive little sound.

 

“Well, any door can be opened if you try very hard, but you’d have to be completely gormless to want to let the Plague out. There’s only one law in the city, and everyone knows it.”

 

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders dejectedly.

 

“You don’t say.” It was Anteros who flew down onto the fountain again and folded his enormous wings with utmost elegance. “There are a lot of merry blokes here in Non London.”

 

“It’s more up your street,” Henry muttered, wounded. “I don’t run elbows with some riff-raff.”

 

“Ah, my moralist!” Anteros burst out laughing. “No one could ever tell that you appeared here when the city was actually full of joy. I caught only a small period of that epoch, but it was spiffing.” He turned to Sherlock. “If you want to hear about the lawbreakers, you come to me, lad, only that information is not gratuitous.”

 

The skull fidgeted, ill at ease.

 

“Stop that immediately!” he demanded. “He’s a guest of Lord Mayor!”

 

“So what? He’d have a bit of warmth, just like any other mortal. What could our venerable Master Whittington do to me? I’m one of the symbols of the city, as you’re very well aware.”

 

“Don’t listen to him, Sherlock.”

 

The detective shrugged his shoulders again.

 

“Does ‘a bit of warmth’ mean something material?” he inquired.

 

“Silly,” Anteros laughed. His eyes were looking at Sherlock, hungry and greedy, and dead. “Only the touch of your palm. I’ll take a little bit of your humanity. It’s not painful and not scary, well, almost. You’ll live.”

 

“You’re obsessed,” the skull murmured, throwing him a disapproving look. “You’re hooked on it as though it’s a drug. Mayor was right, you’d fit better in the Tunnels.”

 

“And what would happen then? There are a lot of people there as well. My Circus is big enough, it can host a lot of mortals. So what if I take a bit of sweet warmth? It doesn’t harm anyone, I know the rules. It won’t revive me, and even if it did, I wouldn’t want that anyway.” He turned to the detective again, “I like people like you. You have a great deal of passions, but you hold them back. You don’t show anything through. Neither to yourself, nor to anyone. So?”

 

His curiosity piqued, Sherlock offered his hand.

 

“Go ahead.”

 

Leaning closer to the detective’s outstretched hand, Anteros seemed to inhale the air around it with his mouth. Sherlock reeled, unsteady on his feet, his heart stuttering for a moment. Then it ended, leaving only a dull ache in his temples.

 

“You fool,” Henry muttered under his breath. “He won’t tell you anything useful, while you’ll have to stack up on the warmth of your soul before becoming your old self again.”

 

“He makes no use of it anyway.” Anteros staggered, almost drunkenly, and licked his lips. “You did good. I’ll tell you everything I know. For that thing there, I’ll tell you.”

 

He seated himself on the edge of the fountain, wrapped in his wings.

 

“Actually, Henry is right. Lately it’s been pretty tedious around here. Not like in older days… I can start with the distinctions between us,” he waved a wing at Sherlock. “You divide the world into black and white, good and evil. In Non London there’s no evil in that sense. That’s what makes us different from people; we don’t kill and we don’t maim for entertainment. If you get mugged, you get just mugged, not killed, unless, of course, they plan on selling your bones on the Black Market, but that’s beside the question. In older days, there were a lot more dangerous creatures, but people change, too. We feed off the ideas of those in London, and right now they’re more likely to believe in horror movies than in traditional evil spirits. Not like it was a few centuries ago, when things were much more exciting,” Anteros narrowed his eyes. “The Plague and the Fire were voracious and imbecilic monsters who would spoil and devour everything indiscriminately, not thinking about the consequences. The rest were more careful and creative. Back in the day, Gog and Magog could go on a hunting trip around the city, and Lord Mayor would just turn a blind eye. The watchmakers would carry out raids upon the daytime city in search of better components and finer brains. The rat girl from Bermondsey also was a lady with quite a character, equipped with a rather fertile imagination. They say, before she was fully forgotten, she had had an affair with the Admiral, although, of course, he would try to deny it. Newgate’s hound would run unleashed and un-muzzled around the streets, and when it felt like hunting, people were better off staying at home. Then, the Thames itself would sometimes flow into the streets during tidal periods, and our river is not unwilling to feed, you can trust me on this. But now…” he waved his hand, grievously. “No real merriment in the air. The daytime city became ordered, it turned tedious. As soon as a person goes missing, it is searched for. As soon as a deformed corpse is discovered, they make a racket, whereas Jack, back in his time, had gotten away with a great deal of bodies until someone raised an alarm… You know, I’d say, the only one with such a—“

 

“Unimportant,” the skull cut him mid-sentence, seemingly displeased with what Anteros was saying. “One would have to be a complete nutter to come up with something like that, and you can spot nutters, you know, in the city. It’s hard to become insane without anyone noticing. Lunatics get caught quite quickly until they have time to disturb someone.”

 

“So you often find lunatics here?” inquired Sherlock.

 

“Save for the Tower, no one has gone insane for the last century,” Henry answered with a laugh.

 

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, amused.

 

“Oh, right. You don’t know… Want to have a look? It’s beautiful from afar.”

 

“And someone here was saying that time is money,” Anteros said, wounded. “We’ll all get our throats slit while you go on your sightseeing little tour.”

 

“After all, he’s our guest,” Henry reminded. “And five minutes are just five minutes. Let’s go, Sherlock. It’s not far away.”

 

…

 

No one noticed a little grey rat which lurked under the board of the fountain. The rat, if anything, didn’t wish to be noticed; it flashed its beady eyes and gave a twitch of its tail before vanishing into the shadows.

 

\- 0 -

 

Henry led the way again, and Sherlock, after his bus journey, felt like he had already gotten used to it. He could try to orientate on his own, but didn’t want to waste time. One thought spun in his mind and he wanted to check one of his hypotheses.

 

They reached Tower Hill in five minutes. It was quiet and deserted.

 

“Have a look,” Henry tossed in his hands, contentedly. “Impressive, eh?”

 

Sherlock gazed up and froze. The Tower of London looked the same as in his city, only… Above the castle, a hive of insane colours was storming. It resembled that same membrane which separated one district from another, but if a transparent partition looked like an iridescent film, the sky above the Tower was a palette of deranged impressionist. Tints superseded each other with frenzied velocity, the sky turning yellow, and purple, and scarlet, and green in a blink of an eye… Colours overlapped and diffused a wavering, flickering glow.

 

“Beautiful, eh?” Henry smirked. “In the beginning of the new millennium the Castle went off its rocker, as though something exploded inside it. Now whole centuries are mixed in it. Earlier, a lot of people lived there, along with the Keeper, the guardian of the Castle. Now even he is not seen anymore, and no one can live there. Only the ravens can, but they have peculiar relationships with time and the Castle. As for the rest of them… Do you know what Tower Hill is called in Non London?”

 

“What?”

 

“Tower Hell. It’s utterly dead. Usually we can sense the other dwellers of the city, remember when we just met I sensed that Lord Mayor was coming? So, it’s the dead zone in the Castle now. I think it’s for the best. We don’t want to hear what’s going on in there.”

 

“No one lives there?” Sherlock asked, mesmerised by the riot of colour.

 

“Only the ravens, as I was saying. Or some small life, rats, for instance. They have no brain for telling time and they don’t care if it’s the twentieth century or the thirteenth. No one from the city dwellers could live there. Some tried, but no one has returned yet.”

 

All of a sudden, a chain of facts arranged in Sherlock’s head. Neatly. Plainly.

 

Idiot. Why didn’t he get it earlier?

 

 _‘You’d have to be a complete nutter to break the law…’_ Henry’s sarcastic comment. Worried Whittington, who couldn’t find any traces, who couldn’t understand what kind of thing would kill in his city.

 

_‘The Tower went off its rocker… utterly dead.’_

_‘You’d have to be a complete nutter to break the law….’_

_‘Are there any ways of escape?’_

 

_‘None, you genius. You’ve got to understand that you can’t escape from somewhere where there’s no time…’_

_‘What if they get help from the outside?’_

 

_‘The rat girl from Bermondsey also was a lady with quite a character, equipped with a rather fertile imagination. They say, before she was fully forgotten, she had had an affair with the Admiral…’_

 

The insane Tower, where only rats could live. Rats. Rats that carried the plague. Rats that were subjects of some old forgotten legend. Rats. Clothes on the victims which were oddly rumpled, as though it had been rubbed with sand. Just like if rats had been thrusting their teeth in it.

 

Energy. What anyone could need energy in Non London for?”

 

_‘Any door can be opened if you try very hard…’_

 

Oh God. He was such an idiot.

 

“Henry, we need to get back to Piccadilly. We need to talk to Anteros.”

 

“What’s the matter—“

 

“It’s urgent!” Sherlock snapped, striding away from the castle. “Lead the way, come on! Where should I turn?!”

 

“Easy, easy. To the left. Don’t shout like that.”

 

When they stepped into the Circus, the pavement next to the fountain got deformed and… started stirring. Exactly. Stirring.

 

The rat carpet rushed back. Anteros lay on the road, broken, bitten, his wings reduced to shreds, feathers plucked.

 

Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat.

 

Someone loomed over the corpse. Someone in a long raincoat, emaciated and of average-height. The criminal turned for a moment, and then stared right at Sherlock, eyes stunned and scared…

 

“Run!” Henry shouted, wrenching itself off Sherlock’s hands and falling onto the ground. “Run, Sherlock!!!”

 

And Sherlock ran.

 

Sherlock was running with a whistling of wind whooshing in his ears. He wasn’t new to the whole running agenda; he was used to chasing and pursuing. But he had always been the one to chase. He had never run from anything, and he couldn’t say this new experience was much to his liking. Behind him was an indubitably unpleasant death; an avalanche of rats, a myriad of tiniest creatures that would simply engulf him if they were only to reach him, and did they want to!

 

Thoughts thrummed in his head in unison with his furious heartbeat. The rat queen! The Bermondsey girl! Anteros signed off his own death sentence when he remembered her. You poor winged idiot, thought Sherlock. But at least he put him on the right track.

 

Barely making it in time to dodge a rat which had managed to clutch at his coat, Sherlock swore under his breath. He could think about that later, he could marvel at his own conclusions afterwards.

 

Sherlock’s head lay out in front of him all the information he had gathered about Non London – districts, jurisdictions, means of transport, structure. No, it wouldn’t work. Logic was different here; intuition and lore applied in its stead. He had neither. He could, if he only managed to concentrate, appear where he wanted, but how could he concentrate with a pack of enraged rodents right at his heels?

 

Sherlock shook off a few rats which caught up with him again, then swerved abruptly into a bystreet. He felt a hunch that it was the right way to go, and in the next moment he found himself standing on the edge of a huge Roman amphitheatre. He paused for a split second to glance back over his shoulder and make sure the rats hadn’t lost his trail. The archway burst with a tsunami of dirt-coloured, squeaking lumps.

 

And Sherlock bolted again. He rushed headlong, not even seeing the road, his breath long since lost and his trouser leg torn by an unfortunate metal hook somewhere on his way; the wind blew right in his face while districts interchanged with other districts in an infuriated kaleidoscope. They appeared behind the corners, in the bystreets, among the trees, or behind the fences. They popped out of the mist and shadows to disappear again, while Sherlock barely had time to grasp their features and pinpoint his whereabouts, guided by stones, tiled roofs, or bás-relief. It was all wrong, all wrong. Non London played with him, taking him in circles. One layer superseded the other, and Holmes appeared either underground, or in the Tunnels, or water dripped from the oozy ceiling and his feet slipped on wet and sticky stones, and in the next moment he was brought to the Thames and as soon as he started thinking that he finally made it, his relief turned out to be illusive, and the first obstacle to hinder the direct line of his route shifted him to a completely different place. So he had to start it all over again. 

 

Rats were still chasing after him, some of them lost speed but were momentarily replaced by others. They were precipitating in a serpentine torrent of grey, subjected to someone else’s will, with the only goal, to kill. Sherlock whirled away at warp speed, trying to throw them off, running, jumping, as fast as his legs could carry him, but his strength was about to give out. Rats didn’t have any problems with reality; they felt at perfect ease in both worlds.

 

Sherlock was attempting to aim for a very definite place, the safest one, but bloody roads kept taking him elsewhere.

 

Patter of rats’ tiny paws was suddenly overlapped with a wild howl; something else decided to join the chase. Sherlock plucked up all his remaining strength and broke out in a full run again.

 

The howl followed him suit, accompanied by snarling, but always sounding a few blocks away, as though urging both him and the rats onwards, signifying a far greater danger than one could possibly imagine.

 

At length, he found himself on the riverbank again, right where he intended to be in the first place. The howl rang out just behind his back, and Sherlock glanced swiftly over his shoulder. A gigantic black hound pursued him, darker than Non London shadows. It moved by broad, uneven leaps, every passing second shortening the distance between them.

 

It was then that Sherlock felt fear gripping at the pit of his stomach. The same, all-encompassing fear he had felt on the watchmakers’ table, uncontrolled, blind horror that resounded through his entire being. He had never been afraid of dogs, but the beast instilled an all-absorbing terror.

 

The detective realised that in all likelihood he wouldn’t be able to throw it off, even if he tried his damnedest. The hound moved incredibly fast, its paws crushing the rats flat to the ground, unseeing and indiscriminate. Sherlock tugged his pistol out of his pocket and fired a few shots, not ceasing his flight and not really expecting to strike the creature. He doubted his bullets could inflict it any harm at all.

 

Pillars of London Bridge sprang into sight in front of him, and Holmes conjured his last strength to launch himself forwards, hoping to be lucky enough and hoping to have enough time to get to the other bank of the Thames. Over there, he would just think hard about the place he needed to get to, and then the road would lead him straight where he wanted.

 

He flung himself onto the bridge, desperately tearing away from the dog and the ocean of rats. The bridge seemed inconceivably long, as though miles and miles of flagstones were left behind yet there was no end of it, and it seemed there wouldn’t ever be one.

 

A bell suddenly chimed from the other bank. Big Ben wailed, delivering twelve beats, and the riverbank trembled with the sound, as though it felt an earthquake coming. The bridge shuddered under Sherlock’s feet and, almost instantly, he remembered what Henry had told him about London Bridge falling every night at the twelfth beat, just like in the song.

 

A stroke of luck. At long last?

 

The bridge creaked and teetered, although stones weren’t supposed to emit so scratching a sound. Sherlock was running through the last span of the bridge when its middle collapsed into water. He glanced back and caught the flitting, black-coloured shape suspended in the air for a split of a second. As though in slow motion, the hound was flying forwards, and Sherlock knew he wouldn’t have time to dodge it. 

 

Then came a roar, and something lunged at it. The dog was hit with something as huge and ferocious as itself. A golden mane flickered in the darkness, and with a yelp both creatures soundlessly fell under water. They submerged without the slightest splash, and the Thames let out a replete sigh. A cold shiver racked through Sherlock. Hesitantly, he stepped back from the bridge and then broke into a run again, not noticing how rats were jumping, drowning, but still somehow making it to the other bank, clinging to the bridge’s intact piers.

 

He was rushing along the streets again, forcing his mind to concentrate on one place. It wasn’t hard, for Big Ben’s tolls were still continuing, still bellowing over the city.

 

Sherlock ran as fast as his legs would take him, not even making out the road, not even thinking where he was headed. Maybe that was why he finally succeeded, why he finally had luck. He tripped over a root which wasn’t supposed to be on a decent, hard-trodden ground. He fell, and the inertia carried him a few feet more forward until he was able to sit upright.

 

Oddly distorted houses gawked at him with their blind windows. A tower, entwined with roots, hovered at a distance. Thirteen Street.

 

The first rat appeared in sight, making it directly towards its victim, but in the next second it was forced to a halt, clasped between the roots that had suddenly crawled out of the soil. The rest didn’t dare follow its unfortunate predecessor; they squeaked lamentably in the distance, at the beginning of the street.

 

“Does Sir need anything?” a calm voice asked behind his back.

 

Never in his life had Sherlock thought he would feel relieved upon seeing a watchmaker again. He got up, maintaining a certain dignity, shook the dust off his coat, and explained:

 

“I need to see Mayor Whittington. I’m being chased.”

 

“I see, Sir,” the monk’s voice hadn’t even the slightest hint of irony. “Follow me.”

 

“How soon can you get into contact with him?” asked Sherlock.

 

The watchmaker folded his hands and bowed his head just a little.

 

“Unfortunately, I can’t serve you, Sir. Simple apprentices don’t have access to ravens. I can take you upstairs, to Master Ben. He shall help you.”

 

“I don’t have time!” Sherlock exclaimed. “It’s urgent.”

 

“You forget something,” the monk reminded him, gently. “Here you have all the time in the world. Come.”

 

When an unimaginable prolonged descend up the Tower staircase was finished, the monumental figure of Ben came up to Sherlock.

 

“I know why you’re here,” he began, holding his hands up before the detective could speak. “The chaos which ravages the city has only one reason.”

 

“Chaos?” Holmes asked, eyebrow raised.

 

“See for yourself,” Ben offered, taking him by the elbow and leading to a gigantic, vitreous cloak dial, stretched along the entire length of the wall, which had been enshrouded in a wavering blanket of darkness. A panorama of the city unfolded from there. Somehow, Sherlock could see all the minute, all the infinitesimal details, even from a height like that; perhaps, the glass was peculiar. Non London was filled with rats. Ashen bodies flooded district after district; the city’s iridescent membranes arched and shrunk in a furious agony, endeavouring to stop the invaders. Districts crawled from place to place, drifting and whirling. Sherlock thought that was why he had been thrown so harshly around the city; the whole construction went to pieces; and it was surprising how he had managed at all to avoid drowning in the Thames.

 

“It’s a wonder you even broke through, Sherlock,” Ben noted in his hollow voice, echoing his thoughts. “The city tries to defend itself and blocks access from one district to the other. It lays out barricades, if you will, and no one can leave their area. You have astounding dedication if you made it up to here.”

 

“I had a good stimulus, but that’s beside the point now. I need Lord Mayor. I have important information for him.”

 

Big Ben smiled.

 

“Now you’ve finally come to see clearly what was obvious even to a blind man.”

 

“Then why haven’t you solved this case on your own?” the detective queried. He would’ve answered much more harshly, hadn’t Ben’s appearance been so utterly unfavourable for an act of rudeness.

 

“I see a lot of things from the height of my tower, but it’s the city’s problem and that of Lord Mayor. We are simply time, and it is people who change the flow of time, not time that affects people’s actions. I don’t intervene. We’re simply the masters. We don’t fuss and we are not in a hurry. It’s more for people like you.”

 

Sherlock’s chin jerked up in defiance, but the master wasn’t paying him any mind anymore. He extracted an enormous metal raven out of the depths of his sleeve, a key jutting off the bird’s side. A couple of turns, and the raven spread its wings, waddled from foot to foot and bowed its head, a glint in its charcoal eye.

 

“Find Mayor and tell him to come as fast as possible. Tell him we have his detective here.”

 

The raven opened wide its beak, cawed and flew out, breaking the glass of the clock. One wave of Ben’s hand was enough to levitate the shreds off the floor and put them back into place. The watchmaker ruled the place as easily as Sherlock did in his Mind Palace.

 

“Time for your actions is expired,” the master told him. “Now all you can do is wait. Stay here. I have business to attend to; I should prevent any disturbances in the Bushes.”

 

Big Ben left in an unhurried fashion, while Sherlock sagged to the floor, with his back leaning against the wall. Thoughts pulsated desperately in his head, cudgeling his brain to search out the best solution.

 

Rats were an incessant current, an unstoppable arrow. What was the point in killing or detaining the Queen if all her rats were insuperable?

 

“Rats are everywhere,” he murmured, voicing the workings of his mind. “She can steer them from anywhere. But… just ordinary animals with a different mind… The Queen is impossible to kill, immortals can’t be brought to death… Unfeasible to incarcerate her either, she will just relocate her mind into that of rats and will keep going… How could he kill an immortal? How could he kill—“

 

“There’s nothing truly immortal,” a quiet voice rang out to his left. “Everything has its time.”

 

“What?” Sherlock jumped.

 

A monk, already notoriously familiar to him, stood next to the detective, wrapped in his rust-coloured robe.

 

Sherlock’s eyes lit up,

 

“Time, you say?”

 

Immediately, phrases surfaced onto the forefront of his memory, as though only expecting the moment he would need it.

 

_‘We’re the watchmakers. We can forge any kind of watch. Watches which count the time before your death, and watches that count the minutes of your happiness; watches which can stop everything and which can start any heart, even those made of stone. We’re the experts.’_

_‘There’s no time on Highgate Cemetery, no time whatsoever. The watchmakers had sealed it off.’_

 

“Can you forge a watch for me?” Holmes asked, captured by an idea. “A watch that could seal off the time for the BermondseyQueen?”

 

“We don’t take orders,” the monk answered, his voice almost succulent. “Besides, it’s hard work, very hard. We have watches for every citizen of Non London, but we have no right to interfere in their time lines. Although,” he fell silent and smirked. “We can make an exception for Sir. What I’ve just told you are recommendations more than rules.” The watchmaker stood still, expectant. “But we still have one law, and it’s unbreakable. We don’t work for free. Any labour has its price.”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

 

“You don’t need money, that much is obvious; it’s useless for the timers. What do you want from me then?”

 

“You know what we want, but it’s not in your power to give it to us. Still, there’s one thing which we can take. Your time, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. You must give us a certain amount of your time, and then we shall forge that watch for you.”

 

“How much do you need?”

 

“Oh, you need not be preoccupied,” the monk assured him. “A few years, no more. Two years, maybe three. There will come a time when you shall need to hide from everybody, it is then you shall return here and pay your debt. For you it won’t be longer than a minute. Save that ring which you had been gifted with, and then you shall be able to come here without encumbrances.”

 

“What if that time never comes?”

 

A light smirk laced the watchmaker’s tone.

 

“Oh, it will, Sir, it will. Do you accept?”

 

Sherlock didn’t need to think twice. In comparison to what he could’ve been asked, it was a merciful price indeed.

 

“I do.”

 

The monk bowed his head low.

 

“I thank you. In that case, allow me to take my leave. We shall do it.”

 

\- 0 -

 

She had gone to the Tower when she couldn’t withstand it any longer.

 

The way they had all looked at her. Indifferent. Estimating. Disdainful. Among those who fed off people’s attention, it was inappropriate to talk to the forgotten. Her hair had been matted. Her spruce attires had disappeared. She had had to be contented with those paltry crumbs of memories there had been left.

 

No one had cared for the Rat Queen from Bermondseyanymore, for the one who once enchanted the most handsome and strongest men in her nets, promising luck and longevity. The one whose name made brides from poor districts hold back a shudder. The one who made the Admiral look benevolently in her direction.

 

No one asked any names in the Tower and no one counted any years. The Keeper never turned anyone out of the fortress, and cells offered a lot of space. She knew that in the daytime city people went into the Tower to look at the past. Non London had little to no volunteers for such pastime. Too loud did the ghosts bawl there and too much was hidden in those walls.

 

She had stayed there.

 

Years had passed. No one remembered the Rat Queen anymore, but rats were hard to forget, they always remained, and she wasn’t dead, and she wasn’t withered, although she wouldn’t mind to. Perhaps, it was then that this malice had wormed its way into her heart; against Big Ben, against old Bailey and St Paul. Against everyone who were bound to bathe in people’s memory and admiration for all eternity. Just because they were made of solid stone. Just because they firmly stood in that daytime city, in that abject parody, in that disgusting motley horde of forgetful people. Oh, she was no stranger to hatred.

 

It had become easier when the Tower went insane.

 

First, it had been funny. One could walk along the corridors and watch the layers of reality, joints of time and heaps of centuries. The Keeper had vanished; he had gone away along the time corridor, further and further away, and he had never come back. She had wandered around the fortress and watched the other centuries. She remembered all of them, down to the utmost detail. She remembered how air had smelt in the thirteenth century’s London, how the Great Fire had burned, how the Plague had destroyed the walls and conquered the streets, how Whittington had occupied his position of Lord Mayor of the nighttime city for the first time. She remembered everything.

 

Then, her memories had started to mingle. She understood that the time which had shuffled in the Tower had ground her as well, but then the understanding had vanished, and she couldn’t understand anything any more. She had started to feel apathetic.

 

More often, she would look back at her favourite centuries, ignoring the latest epochs. She had been the Queen in that city. The real one. The uncrowned one, but the fairest of them all.

 

Malice had augmented.

 

Malice had led her out of the gates of the fortress and driven her to the hills, to the gates of the ancient graveyard where not even nomadic streetlights had dared to show their glow. Malice had made her peer through the blurred mist of timelessness at the tall figure in the mask and raincoat. Malice had made her come up with a magnificent plan, a plan to find another forgotten legend - the Hound, no longer needed by anyone, when she had decided to share with it her own madness. 

 

Someone else’s power had been sweeter than honey. The future had seemed brighter than ever. First, the Plague would lay waste to the city, and then her rats, her tiny children, would help it as they always did. The chaos, then, would walk the streets. The city would disappear, for people would disappear, too. And it would be the best thing, because the past was long gone, and those who were never born in flesh and blood could not die. There had been only one thing left, to start from the very outset. Or not to start. It had turned out to be much more interesting to just erase it.

 

And she walked along London streets, humming an ancient song under her breath, happy and light-footed. As always. The Queen. The real Queen.

 

\- 0 -

 

Sherlock stood by the window, still observing as the city bustled and panicked, when the russet-coloured robe flashed again at his side. The watchmakers moved soundlessly, but now Holmes could sense their arrival like a watch which would start ticking above his ear.

 

“Sir wishes to refresh himself?” The monk’s hands held a goblet, brimful of steam.

 

“I know that I’m not supposed to eat or drink anything, so you might as well save yourself the trouble.”

 

“Sir could become one of the masters…”

 

Sherlock glanced back. The hood fully concealed the monk’s face, but he could’ve sworn he saw his lips curve in a beguiling smile.

 

“There’s not much left. The city shall take you anyway; it’s only a matter of time. But we shall not force Sir into anything.”

 

Sherlock was on the verge of asking what it meant as he heard footfalls on the staircase.

 

“Lord Mayor Whittington,” the watchmaker announced. The goblet had vanished from his hands. Sherlock never came to know where it had gotten to.

 

Dick Whittington all but trotted into the Tower. On his shoulder perched Margaret the cat, her tail belligerently in the air and her ears tucked closely to her little head.

 

“Mr. Holmes! I’m glad you’re here! It is as though pandemonium broke loose and flooded the city. I feared to never see you alive. Have you managed to learn anything of importance?”

 

Sherlock waved his hand, dismissively.

 

“Our time is short.”

 

The watchmaker, who still lingered in close quarters, reminded him, quietly:

 

“Sir has all the time of Non London whilst Sir is here.”

 

The detective cast him a guarded look, but the latter didn’t say anything more.

 

“It was under my very nose this whole time. I read about her in the very beginning when I studied the legends. It’s always difficult to winnow facts from rubbish, and her story wasn’t the most popular one.”

 

Dick Whittington looked at him, perplexed. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

 

“For god’s sake, you have a city full of rats! There’s only one rat queen in London. The one from Bermondsey. I wasn’t sure until they attacked me, but now…”

 

Lord Mayor exhaled a shocked breath and wiped his forehead, pushing his hat further to the back of his neck.

 

“Mr. Holmes,” he began, at last. “You have full right to reproach me, but it’s precisely for that reason that I have summoned you; it wasn’t in our power to discover the culprit. Not because we are incapable of analysis or inferential judgment, but because we forget everything that people forget. It’s a peculiarity of Non London. The Bermondsey Queen is of interest only to the researchers of the city folklore. I would’ve never recalled her, had I not been forced to. But how did you know?”

 

Sherlock smiled. He would never admit to it, but he enjoyed explaining the course of his thoughts after it brought him to a successful result.

 

“Madness, the Tower, and the Plague, locked in the cemetery. Why collect energy? As far as I understood, people’s memory can’t be brought back, which you all feed off. It’s impossible to find any other purposes. It’s just power to you, nothing more. What can one use this power for? It can be used in order to break into something, in order to destroy something. In Non London, there’s only one sealed place. Perhaps, there are more of them, but I was lucky at the first try. Then, it was more or less easy.  I needed a mad person, capable of breaking the law, and who hid in a way which made it impossible to find them, since you had obviously implemented some search. When I saw the Tower that went insane and which could give shelter to anyone, I realised who it was. Anteros told me about the Queen, and she killed him almost minutes after. The Admiral died because he could still recognise her. First she had killed the most powerful dwellers of the city, and then she looked where it was more profitable. I have only one question left,” Sherlock glanced at Lord Mayor. “When exactly is she going to accumulate enough energy?"

 

Dick Whittington turned to the watchmaker.

 

“We need to get to Highgate Cemetery, to the gates. The faster, the better. Let Ben use his reserves, we’ll try to hold it.”

 

A corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, smugly.

 

“There’s no need in it. I know what to do.”

 

Lord Mayor didn’t say anything, only gazing at him with distrust before he turned to the monk and gave a short nod.

 

The watchmaker bowed his head low, and at once, as if he received permission, his hand made a movement in the air, as though he was splitting the reality. Light gushed in through the improvised fissure, and Sherlock squinted, feeling his wrist being clamped by someone’s slender fingers as he made a step forward.

 

From that moment onwards, events followed each other so fast Sherlock hardly had time to assess the oncoming data. It felt as though in Ben’s tower they really had all the time of the universe, and then only a small, abject chunk of it was left.

 

 

The graveyard’s gates drastically contrasted with what Sherlock remembered from Highgate’s photographs in his London. Massive, coated with iron, gates looked like they could probably resist a cannonball’s shot.

 

Nevertheless, at that second they seemed to be failing.

 

The Queen stood next to them; a miniature figure among the skittering sea of rats, surrounded by dim glowing. She stood with her hand outstretched as though she was asking for something; her posture betrayed neither exertion, nor effort. She simply stood in front of the gates as the gates were yielding. Their huge doors seemed to be attacked by some invisible force; their metal was bending with a crunching sound of an ice being broken, arching, sinking and breaking cracks all over. The Queen clenched her hand into a fist, and the gates seemed to split in the middle. Yet still they didn’t open. At least for now. He could be mistaken, but Sherlock thought he had seen and felt someone’s enormous silhouette behind the barrier, an impossible, phantasmagorically tall figure clad in a black robe and a white mask with a long nose. Sherlock knew from somewhere that it was the mask of the doctor, the mask of the Doctor Death from the Venetian carnival, but now it didn’t seem funny or ridiculous. The detective was overcome with a sharp and primeval fear.

 

And all of a sudden… it ended. The watchmaker, who had come with them, lifted his arms and clapped his palms in the air. The Queen turned around and froze. She moved abruptly back to her previous position, and the gates exploded again, and then she turned around again, and again… Sherlock thought he was watching the same scene on repeat.

 

“Could I be of any other service to Sirs?” the watchmaker asked, politely.

 

“The watch,” Sherlock answered, his voice sounding completely different from his usual one. He cleared his throat and repeated, “The watch. You’ve forged a watch for her so quickly.”

 

“We’re the masters of our art,” the monk replied, gratefully.

 

“Oh, I see. Elegant, yes,” Whittington said. “Sherlock, you did very well. Oh, and rewind thirty minutes back please,” Lord Mayor turned to the monk, his voice calm. “It would be hard to repair the gates, and they had been exceptionally solid.”

 

The detective suddenly realised that he had been the only one to be scared. Whittington and the watchmaker behaved themselves as if nothing particular had just happened.

 

The rust-coloured cassock nodded, pulling out an exquisite chained watch from the depths of his sleeves. He approached the Queen and took her by the hand. She turned around, and it wasn’t on repeat anymore; it was real. She tried to jerk away, to thrust herself free, but spider-like fingers gripped her hand in a firm manacle. She didn’t cry out but tried to simply wrench away… The long hand made her touch the clock dial, only with the tip of her finger, but it was enough. The Bermondsey Queen was drawn inside the clock dial. The master of time handed the watch to Whittington.

 

“She won’t be able to escape. Time doesn’t exist for her anymore.”

 

After giving the watch back, the monk examined the gates, his eyes critically inspecting the damage, and shook his head.

 

“Sir has to close his eyes,” he demanded without looking back. Sherlock understood the request was meant for him. He closed his eyes, despite his obvious reluctance not to.

 

A light movement of the air grazed his face, accompanied by a crack.

 

“Sir may open his eyes.”

 

The gates of the cemetery were shut. They towered before them, unyielding as a rock. Nothing loomed over the barrier.

 

“You see, Margaret,” Whittington addressed his cat that was still perching on his shoulder. “Now you can return to your post and pride yourself in having justly indicated to me the right place.”

 

“The right place?” Sherlock repeated.

 

“Margaret has guarded Highgate Hills for a long time now,” Lord Mayor smiled a soft smile. “It was her to have raised the alarm.”

 

“Guarded… Oh, of course!” Sherlock felt ridiculously stupid again for not realising it sooner. He had read a great deal of folklore nonsense and didn’t pick up on the most important thing. He didn’t pay attention to the Rat Queen, he had forgotten about the monument dedicated to Dick Whittington’s cat which was situated not far from Archway metro station. Margaret and the graveyard had been right under his nose this entire time. “You knew. You knew from the very beginning. They why did you need me?”

 

Dick Whittington let out a sigh and smiled, shaking his head lightly.

 

“No, Mr. Holmes, I could only guess that there was something I was missing; we needed you very much. You have rendered an invaluable service to the city. I’ve told you that we’re not able to see the things which are obvious even to children from your world. We knew that only a man could tackle this task, that was why we began those absurd attempts at abductions.”

 

“Right,” Holmes answered, his tone caustic. “And I was simply an improvement on old lady Adenberg. I run faster and have dabbled in recreational drug use.”

 

“And also you love the city, Mr. Holmes,” Mayor continued in a soft voice. “You may not know it, but you love London. Leave this self-disparagement. I was rather under the impression that it isn’t your style.” He turned to the watchmaker, “We have to return the unspent energy. We cannot wait for the natural restoration, there’s chaos raving in the city.”

 

The latter gave a nod.

 

“At the contact with the carrier of the energy, it will flow back where it belongs.”

 

“Wonderful. Come, Sherlock.”

 

They came out into the quiet street and proceeded forwards from the cemetery. Walking shoulder to shoulder with Mayor felt different from Henry; Dick Whittington moved the reality layers in a gentle and careful manner. Sherlock didn’t even notice as they reached Piccadilly.

 

It seemed to have become a tradition, to return to Piccadilly.

 

Anteros was still lying where the rats had left him, pale and not looking like former self. He resembled a teenager now, almost a boy. Whittington squatted next to him and touched the watch to his cadaverous chest.

 

There were no special effects; the symbol of the city simply changed, almost imperceptibly, and the next moment he was already getting on his feet, adjusting his wings as he did so.

 

“Thank you,” Anteros’ eyes carried the same dark colour and the same mischievous glint. “I’m indebted to you, Mr. Holmes - someday I shall repay you. If you’re ever unlucky in love, just walk up to Piccadilly.”

 

“Show-off,” someone creaked from the ground.

 

“Henry!” Lord Mayor lifted the skull and gingerly wiped it with a lapel of his coat. “Were you injured?”

 

“Not at all, My Lord, whatever can injury me?”

 

Dick Whittington turned to face Sherlock.

 

“I think it’s time to bid each other farewell, Mr. Holmes. It was too long a night, and I don’t think you’ll receive any pleasure from further strolling. I must visit the Admiral and old Bailey, and everyone who has been hurt. I must put the city back in order. It won’t be an easy task, and therefore it’s not safe for you to remain here any longer. The city likes you and it may want to make you stay.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something but didn’t find the right words. For the first time in his life he had no idea what could be said on such occasion. Besides, he didn’t want to leave.

 

“My Lord,” Henry called. “May I venture a favour, My Lord?”

 

“Of course, tell me.”

 

“Let him take me with him.”

 

Surprised, the detective stared at the skull. Henry fidgeted a bit, and then grumbled:

 

“Don’t look at me like that! Of course, I’ll become a bonehead, but that’s okay. I’ve lived for too long. After all, a talking head which had been cut off a few centuries ago is not even funny. You’ll put me on the mantelpiece, and I’ll be scaring off ladies. Or not, if ladies don’t come to you often. Well then, you’ll scare someone else with me then, what’s the difference?”

 

Suddenly, Holmes smiled.

 

“I think he will go well with my image.”

 

Whittington burst out laughing.

 

“Well then! There’s only one thing l—“ he trailed off and strained, as though listening hard to a faraway voice. “Yes, of course,” he said, speaking to neither Sherlock, nor Henry. “Yes. Very well.”

 

When Mayor turned to the detective, his face was set in a rather bewildered expression.

 

“Mr. Holmes. You… There’s someone who wants to see you. No, leave Henry here.”

 

The skull choked on an unasked question, emitting a vague sound. Sherlock tensed, involuntarily.

 

“Don’t be afraid,” Lord Mayor smiled. “It won’t harm you. Give me your hand.”

 

Sherlock stretched his hand out.

 

And the familiar world retreated once more, giving way to the unreal one.

 

 

They stood in the midst of nothingness and it was neither static nor single-coloured as Sherlock was accustomed, but it scintillated, it sparkled iridescent, it breathed and thrummed with living matter, and it was much more beautiful than dazzling lights above the deranged Tower. It resembled music before it was constricted into sounds. It resembled something that was before music itself.

 

Dick Whittington smiled.

 

“All right, I’m going to leave you alone. It’s a private conversation, and I have no right to be a part of it.”

 

“Who wants to see me?” Sherlock asked, surprised. “Who else needs me?”

 

“You shall see for yourself in no time,” replied Lord Mayor softly, bringing his hand around the detective’s shoulders. “You know, I envy you a little. Not many are bestowed with such an honour. Even me, for I’ve seen it only twice in my life, and I’ve lived for quite a long time.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but Dick only shook his head.

 

“Don’t.”

 

Letting his hand fall, he disappeared. Sherlock threw his head backwards, enjoying the dance of colours above him, waiting. It seemed like only a few seconds had passed when the lights turned to him, its threads reaching out, thin stems forming into a human silhouette.

 

Right before him, stood… Sherlock couldn’t say for certain what stood before him. He saw a lot of people at once. Creatures had all kind of faces he could imagine, and they were everything at the same time; a woman, a child, a man, an elderly gentleman, a young lady… All the faces, all the garments, all the epochs merged into one, entwined into one potent spiral and stood right in front of him.

 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the creature greeted. “I wanted to say thank you.”

 

Its voice was a maelstrom of voices, and Sherlock heard all of them at once, his ears unable to separate them as they flowed directly into his brain, forming an ideal concourse, and all these voices were smiling.

 

Sherlock tilted his head to one side.

 

“What are you?” he asked.

 

“I am…” The creature laughed, and colours inside it started to mingle in a bright dance again. “I am the city. I’m London, united London, daytime and nighttime, the one that exists.”

 

Holmes looked at it with close attention and added:

 

“The one that always was.”

 

“Yes. The one that always remains. Simultaneously. But I’m also everyone for whom this city became familiar, for those who loved it. I remember everyone of them, and I am everyone of them. And I wanted to say thank you.”

 

“What?” asked Holmes, puzzled. He didn’t expect that. He could understand Whittington’s gratitude, or Anteros’, or that of any of the citizens, but from the city…

 

As though listening to his thoughts, London smirked:

 

“The city hired you, for Dick Whittington is only my subject. You’ve been working for London, because if the plan had succeeded… it would’ve destroyed everything, the chaos would’ve devoured both of the cities, and I could’ve been obliterated. You were needed by me. And I wanted to reward you. What would you like to have, Sherlock Holmes?”

 

Sherlock froze. He hadn’t even thought of that, and besides, why would he, if he already received everything he could only dream of? The exclusive case, the new world, the paradoxical universe and his victory? What else could he need?

 

He was silent. He hadn’t wanted anything for a long time now.

 

“Then allow me to choose a gift for you, if you don’t mind?” the city asked in all of its multicoloured voices, each resounding deep inside Sherlock.

 

Sherlock knew he couldn’t refuse. Every face of the city looked right into his eyes.

 

“You already know what happens to those who are remembered in London?” asked the city. “They become legends, they come into here, in Non London, and they remain a part of the history, sometimes a distorted part, but never forgotten. The bond between London and Non London is indissoluble, and your name shall be remembered in London. You shall become a legend, Sherlock Holmes, and very soon. You shall be remembered by many generations. It is my first gift to you.”

 

Sherlock couldn’t utter a word. He heard the city talking and for the first time in Non London the feeling of complete unreality consumed him entirely. Such things didn’t happen. Did he need it? Did he not? Sherlock Holmes, the only consulting detective in the—

 

“The second gift, my dear Sherlock Holmes,” the city continued, “is the most precious to you. Knowledge. From now on, daytime London is an open book for you. You will never get lost in it, and you’ll know the city better than anyone; it won’t have any secrets from you. Its most far away corners, its labyrinth of streets… Everything will live in you just like you will live in London itself. You’re a part of it, but now it shall become a part of you.”

 

Sherlock still didn’t say anything in response. It was greater than he could ever imagine. He did, in fact, love London, it was a city with hundreds of possibilities, with its tedium and its rare flashes of exciting events, with its rain and its wind, with its grounds and its crime, and everything it could ever offer him. And this gift… It was, in fact, priceless.

 

But the city understood him. It smiled at Sherlock, and each and every face of all epochs smiled at him in turn.

 

“And my third gift… You think you don’t need it and you’ll probably want to get rid of it, but… Even the most genius of minds requires someone who would listen. If you’re alone, you’re going to destroy yourself, Sherlock Holmes. Your mind won’t be able to tackle its own sharpness. A person will appear in your life, the only one who would suit you perfectly. The only one who will be able to be there for you, and this is the best I can do for you.”

 

“But—“ Sherlock tried to object, but the city didn’t let him.

 

“No. You’ll understand. By the moment it happens, you will understand. And you will know who that will be. As soon as you recognise that person, you should think carefully. You’re quite capable of that. Now I must take my leave. It’s rather difficult to sustain a static form. Moreover, for myself.” Garish threads that had created the city’s silhouette started to untwine and flow back into the surrounding matter. “Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes. We’ll see each other again, but not in your life, sometime later. Remember that you’re always welcome to come to Non London again. You may return, only remember well that our reality is harmful to you. You’re from the daytime city, through and through, but if there’s a necessity, if there’s an exigency, you can always come here. And you’ll be welcome. Now I bid you goodbye.”

 

The personification of the city, its essence dissolved into the surrounding space, leaving only a strange, unfamiliar, tugging sensation of inexpressible gratitude. Holmes smiled. The city, right?..

 

Sherlock closed his eyes and stepped back into the Circus, so lightly as though he had spent all his life stepping from one reality into another. He felt slightly dizzy from everything he had heard, and now he just wanted to finally go back. He really wanted to go back.

 

In the Circus, Anteros, Dick, Margaret and Henry were expecting him.

 

“You’re the lucky one, handsome,” Anteros drawled, a smirk playing on his lips. “It doesn’t happen that often, even to Non-Londoners. Well, are you going to leave us now?”

 

“Yes,” replied Sherlock. “My business here is over, if, of course, you don’t have another tempting riddles, suitable only for those from the daytime world.”

 

“No,” Dick laughed. “We’ll solve all other riddles on our own. “Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You’ve been, indeed, of invaluable help to us, and we shall never forget it.”

 

Sherlock nodded. He had no good answer to obvious statements.

 

Margaret, who stood next to Mayor, came up to him and rubbed her head against Holmes’ legs, then meowed a short meow and came back on her spot, apparently realising that Sherlock wasn’t a big fan of domestic animals who could return a courteous gesture and pat her back in response.

 

Sherlock approached the edge of the fountain and, taking no notice of Anteros’ sad look, picked up the skull.

 

“Well, Henry,” he said. “Are you sure you want to change the scenery and gather dust in some corner of my apartment?”

 

“Quite,” the latter replied. “I’m almost ancient, and it’s time for me to settle down. I’ll preserve a sparkle of reason, so if you agree to sometimes take me outside to let me see what it’s like there in your London, we’ll consider the matter resolved.”

 

“No problem.”

 

“Then, what are we waiting for?” asked the skull.

 

Sherlock habitually tucked Henry under his arm and, after nodding to everyone else, started to go away. He could leave straight from there, but he wanted to allow himself a dramatic gesture. His tread was firm, lapels of his coat rippling as he went, and the dark sky of Non London kept changing its obscure colours.

 

“Hey, visit us sometimes, at least!” He heard behind his back before the world completely went black, leaving space for another, more familiar one.

 

He was still standing on Piccadilly, but it was the Circus which he knew down to the last stone. The usual and real one, just like the one he had left only minutes ago. The screen shone its gaudy advertisements, rare night taxis purred along the road, and a solitary street cleaner gathered the litter with a melancholic look on his face.

 

Taking a deep inhale of familiar air, Sherlock smiled and adjusted the skull which forever fell silent, and headed home on foot.

 

At the corner of the Circus he stopped, glancing back over his shoulder and slightly winking at the winged statue on top of the fountain. For a second, for a split second, he was sure Anteros waved his wing in response before freezing motionless again. Sherlock laughed, not paying any attention to the cleaner who shook his head at him, and then he weaved his way further, his pace slow and unhurried, so that he could enjoy to the fullest his old new London which was his gift from now on and for the rest of his life.

 


End file.
